Elysium
by Lila2
Summary: Sydney discovers where she's been for the past two years
1. Dream a Little Dream

Title: "Elysium"  
  
Author: Lila  
  
Spoiler: "The Telling"  
  
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Author's Note:  
  
I'm working on another chapter of "Contradiction," but I just had to get this out first. This will probably also be a multi-parter, but only a few chapters. It's a bit darker than my usual work, but I think ya'll will still like it. Enjoy!  
  
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"No one has said what the truth should be  
  
And no one has decided that I'd feel this way  
  
If you felt as I  
  
Would you betray yourself"  
  
- "Elysium," Portishead  
  
~ * ~  
  
It comes to me in little bits at night when I'm dreaming. Or at least I think I am; I'm not so sure anymore. I'm not sure of a lot of things. I guess that's what happens when you're dead.  
  
Kendall told me to take things easy for a while. "Rest up, regroup" he'd said. "When you feel better we'll decide how to take the next step." Sloane, his organization--they're still out there. I know Kendall wants me to go back. They all do: my father, Dixon, Marshall, even Michael Vaughn and his band of gold. That's another thing I don't understand either. I still love him or at least I think I do, but every time I bring his face to mind an image of that wedding band comes along with him. I push thoughts of Vaughn and his betrayal away. I can't deal with him now, just like I can't deal with anything else in my life.  
  
It's a funny thing, being dead. People come out of the woodwork to mourn you. Right now I'm looking at a card from Susie Thompson. We went to college together and I always thought she hated me. Now she's "Beyond thrilled" to learn I'm alive. It seems a lot of people are glad to have me back, acting like I never left in the first place. Will comes by every day bringing coffee or muffins, little things to cheer me up. As if he could understand what it's like to be dead. He says he wants the old Sydney back, the one who used to be his best friend. I smile and nod, sip my latte, extra foam, and avoid telling him that Sydney doesn't exist anymore, that she died two years ago. How can I tell him that the girl he knew and loved isn't me? He laughed the first time I said that, said I should try and forget, be thankful I'm alive. He reached over and squeezed my hand, looked deep into my eyes, "I'm so glad you're back, Syd. You don't know how much I've missed you."  
  
He's right. I don't know and I never will. For two years I've been dead. The man I love married another, my friends have moved on, even my apartment is gone. I look out the window of my new place, pick at the clothes Kendall bought for me. Will is watching me with his beautiful blue eyes, drinking in the sight of me like I might disappear if he looks away for a minute. I guess that's what happens when you're best friend comes back from the dead. I meet his gaze for a moment, but have to look away. I can't take this much longer. It's times like these, when I feel the full weight of what my disappearance did to the people I love, when I wish I hadn't come back to life. No one should have to live with that kind of guilt. Why should I?  
  
Will is rambling on and on about a new movie he wants to see and all the places we should visit during my vacation time. I listen half-heartedly, my mind drifting to other things, like how a bike trip through Sonoma will make up for the two years of my life I lost. He changes the topic, launching into a monologue about how happy he is to have me back. I fidget nervously, running a blanket's edges through my fingers. I hate when he talks like this, reminds me of all the pain I caused over the last two years. The room feels small, stuffy, and I close my eyes for a moment.   
  
Bad choice. All I see is the dirt falling on me, enclosing me in this prison of pain and guilt. Of course it isn't real. I might not know what happened to me for the last two years, but I know I wasn't buried alive; it's just my mind's way of dealing with two missing years. They're trapped someplace I can't remember, buried in the hidden recesses of my mind. Only I don't know where the grave is and there's no rebirth. Sydney might have come back from the dead, but what happened to her is gone forever.  
  
Suddenly it's all too much for me. I feel like I can't breathe. "Will?" I ask and he turns to me obediently, like a dog obeying his master.  
  
"Yeah, Syd?" His eyes are worried, full of concern, but they're the eyes of a stranger. He looks at me like I'm still the bright-eyed girl he used to know--but I'm not anymore. Sydney Bristow died two years ago and I don't know who the girl is wearing my face.  
  
I look straight in those worried eyes and paste a smile on my face. "I'm a little tired, Will. I think I'm gonna lie down for a while."  
  
"Of course," he says quickly, his voice laced with guilt. He's upset for wearing me out. As if he has anything to feel guilty about. It's not like he cost his best friend her career, or risked her life countless times, or made her think he was dead for two years. No, those are my crimes, my sins. Will has nothing on me. "Get all the rest you need, Syd," he says hurriedly, gathering coffee cups and paper bags. "Call me tomorrow. Maybe we can see a movie or something?" His eyes are full of hope, like he can make up for this afternoon by treating me to a movie. Too bad he doesn't know he has nothing to make up for, but I can see it's important to him to look out for me and after all I've put him through, I don't have it in me to let him down.  
  
"Sure," I say. "I'll call you tomorrow and we'll figure something out"  
  
He smiles gets his stuff together. "Are you sure you're okay? Do you want me to call your dad or something?"  
  
"No," I insist, probably a little too quickly and he looks up nervously. "Really," I say more calmly. "I'm just tired, okay? I'll be fine."  
  
He nods reluctantly. "Call me if you need anything."  
  
"Promise."  
  
He gives me a quick hug, squeezes my hand, and finally gets the hell out. I rest my forehead against the door and take deep, gulping breaths. I don't know how much more of this I can take. I know he means well--they all mean well--but I just want to be left alone. See, try as they might, none of them--not my father or Will or Dixon or Vaughn, especially Vaughn--none of them know what I'm going through, because not a single one of them knows what it's like to be dead.  
  
Of course I know I wasn't really dead, I even had a few meetings with that god-awful CIA shrink to prove it, but I might as well have been. Everything I know and love is gone, my life as I knew it is over, and I'm not sure who I am anymore. I look in the mirror and see the same brown hair, the same brown eyes, but something is missing. There's no sparkle in my eyes, no laughter in my smile. I'm dull, lifeless, like I'm not even there. It's not even cliché when I say I'm a ghost of my former self.  
  
I push away from the door and pad to the deck where French doors lead directly to the ocean. It's funny. I never had much feeling for the ocean before, but after I resurrected myself all I wanted was to be near the beach. It's the only place where I feel at peace. When I can hear the waves crashing on the shore and smell salt on the wind I can breathe easy, I can let my mind wander. When I'm by the water the guilt slips away. I settle in my lounge chair and draw a blanket over me. It's a nice night, not too cold, and there's a slight breeze. I'm still for a moment, enjoying the sounds of the ocean and the stars twinkling brightly in a dark sky. Like it always does when I'm by the water, my eyes slowly slide close, and I drift off to sleep.   
  
It happens again as my mind forms dreams and nightmares, tries to unearth where I've been for the last two years. I've had them before, all images of the beach and the sun and the ocean crashing against a white beach. Yet, there are never sounds, never people, never anything real, just postcard images of places I've never been. But this time is different. I'm standing on a porch, a lot like this one, gazing at the ocean before me. The sun shines brightly, the water glitters against a brilliant sky, and the sand is white, soft between my toes. I'm wearing a sundress, something gauzy and silky with a neckline lower than anything I'd dare wear here. My bare arms are golden, my hair sun-streaked, and a silver ring gleams on my middle toe. I hear laughter in the background, a child's laughter, and I turn from the porch railing. A little boy is tottering towards me on miniature legs. His hair is so blond it's nearly white and it curls around an angelic face. His mouth curves into an enormous smile as he nears me and he picks up speed, clutching a fluffy bear in one hand.   
  
Through the haze of the dream I watch myself reach down and scoop the little boy into my arms, my laughter mingling with his. "Hey baby," I hear myself coo. "I missed you."  
  
"Mama!" he cries and stares up at me with familiar blue eyes.   
  
I giggle in turn and press kisses all over his face, laughing as he giggles hysterically. "Mama loves you, baby," I say and kiss his forehead. "Should we go find, Daddy?"  
  
"Too late," a voice says behind me. "He's already been found."  
  
"Perfect timing," I say and turn towards him, the baby in my arms.  
  
He's gorgeous, his hair bleached pure gold by the sun and his tan accentuating the blue of his eyes. In other words, he's Sark.   
  
~ * ~  
  
My eyes shoot open, my breathing rapid and my heart racing. I push my hair off my face and shove the blanket away. I pull at the layers of clothing covering my midriff and run a tentative finger over the scar on my stomach. I can feel the bile rise in my throat as my fingers caress the ragged patch of raised tissue. "No," I think to myself. "It can't be." But what if it was? What else would explain the baby that called me "Mama?"   
  
"Oh my god," I whisper. "What the hell happened to me two years ago?"  
  
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	2. Don't Cry Daddy

Author's Note:  
  
Yeah, chapter two! We're finally getting somewhere here and I'm liking where this one's heading. Thank you for all your wonderful responses to this story. I really appreciate all your feedback and comments. I hope you enjoy!  
  
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"No one should fear what they cannot see,  
  
And no one's to blame it's just hypocrisy,  
  
It's written in your eyes,"  
  
- "Elysium," Portishead  
  
~ * ~  
  
I met Vaughn's wife today. I was at the supermarket buying groceries for dinner with Will when I ran headfirst into them. They were holding hands, laughing, joking--things I used to do with Vaughn and never will again. Just seeing them together made my heart clench, made my breath catch in my throat. She wasn't what I expected: short, petite, blonde and blue-eyed. I felt like an amazon standing next to her while Vaughn shifted nervously from foot to foot. Her name was Jen, a good, All-American-Girl kind of name. She was all sunshine and smiles, she clearly knew who I was and my history with her husband, but she never let it show. She just calmly shook my hand, smiled brightly into my eyes, and said it was nice to meet me. I wish I could say the same about her.  
  
I nodded politely at her small talk and hastily made my exit, mumbling about having to meet Will. Something like jealousy flashed in Vaughn's eyes and it gave me a smug sense of satisfaction that he was upset I chose to spend time with Will and not him. "Serves him right for going out and getting married," I thought to myself, but it didn't loosen the icy fist clasped around my heart. It was getting hard to breathe again. I didn't even pay for the groceries. I just dropped them in a pile, ignored the looks of other customers, and got the hell out of there. Outside I could smell a hint of salt on the breeze and I took deep, gasping breaths, trying to calm myself down. It helped a little, but I knew it wasn't enough.  
  
I wasn't able to breathe easy until I felt sand under my feet and chilly water lap against my toes. I collapsed in the sand at the water's edge, calmed by the crash of the waves against my bare legs, the salty wind on my cheeks. I don't know how long I sat there, just staring out at the water, but it was the only thing I could do to calm down. It's getting to be a problem, having to flee to the ocean every time I can't deal with the mess that's become my life.  
  
I know I'm turning into a head case. My shrink said it's not uncommon, considering everyone thinks I've been dead for two years and I've lost a large portion of my life, but it's driving me insane. I don't eat, I avoid the people I supposedly love, and every time I close my eyes all I see is a beautiful baby with white-blond curls that calls me "Mama." Just like it does every time I think about that dream, the scar on my stomach begins to itch and I rub it softly, wondering where the hell it came from. The doctor I saw said it looks like a Caesarian scar, but he couldn't be sure until I let him examine me. I told him I'd think about it. I know I shouldn't wait, but I'm just not ready to face the truth yet. If it is what I think it is, I won't know how to react, and more importantly, how to cope. Until I can think about Vaughn and breathe normally, I don't think I'm ready to have the scar examined.  
  
I hear footsteps behind me, softly padding against the fine sand, but I don't bother to turn around. I could recognize that sound blindfolded. "What are you doing here, Dad?" I ask softly, watching a group of seagulls flutter around a buoy.  
  
"Vaughn called," he says. "He said you had a minor breakdown at the grocery store. He's worried about you, Syd."  
  
"Yeah, isn't everyone."  
  
"What's that supposed to mean? You know we're happy to have you back, but we're worried. You're not yourself anymore."  
  
I shoot to my feet angrily, jerking around to face my father. He's standing there expectantly, waiting for my answer. He can be such a moron sometimes. "Guess what, Dad?" I say angrily. "Did it ever occur to you that I'm not the same person anymore? Did it ever occur to you that being dead for two years might change me forever?"  
  
"But you're not dead, Syd. You're here, you're alive. We just want the girl we love back."  
  
"Well, she's not coming back!" I yell. "Nothing is the same anymore. How can you not see that? Vaughn is married, Dad. He has a wife and home, a life without me. Francie's dead, murdered because of me. Will has moved on. Did you know Abby is his new best friend? Even my apartment's gone. Nothing is left of my old life and I don't have much to build on for a new one. I don't know who I am or what I'm supposed to be. Everything has changed and you'd think I could have a little time to deal with that without everyone on my case all the time."  
  
He takes a step closer and lays a hand on my arm. "Syd, I love you," he says softly. "Your mother loves you. Dixon, Marshall, Will, Vaughn. . .they all love you. We just want to help."  
  
I look at him through teary eyes. "Than leave me alone," I whisper. "All I want to do is be left alone."  
  
"Syd. . ."  
  
"Dad," I interrupt. "Do you know what it's like to be dead? Do you?" I prod when he doesn't answer. He shakes his head no. "I didn't think so. It's like being reborn, only not in a good way. I mean, I look the same. I have the same hair, the same eyes, the same face--only it's not me. Everything that made me who I was is gone."  
  
He reaches over and tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, just like he did when I was a little girl, before my mother pretended to be dead too. "I'm still here, Sydney."  
  
I pull out of his grasp. "I need time, Dad. I need to figure things out. Please, can you do that for me?"  
  
He sighs deeply, tucks his hands in his pockets. He looks old, defeated, nothing like the indestructible, arrogant superspy he pretends to be; he just looks like my dad. "Okay," he reluctantly agrees. "If that's what you need."  
  
"Could you talk to Will too? I can't bring myself to tell him to go away."  
  
"Yeah, I'll tell Will."  
  
"Thanks, Dad," I say and wrap my arms around him. I feel his arms come around me, and for the first time in forever it feels real. There's no anger, no bitter resentment anymore. Suddenly I'm six-years-old again and my Daddy's making all the pain go away. When I pull away my eyes are teary again, and to my surprise, there are tears in his eyes too.  
  
"I love you, Syd," he says softly. "I hope you can believe me when I say that."  
  
I laugh awkwardly and brush at my eyes. "You know, for once I think I do. I love you too, Dad. Thank you, for everything."  
  
"Can I call you?"  
  
I hesitate, wavering between doing what seems right and what I need. "How about I call you, when I'm ready."  
  
"Okay," he softly agrees. "If that's what you need."  
  
"I'll be better soon," I say. "I just need some time away from everything."  
  
"Call me when you're better."  
  
I stand on my tiptoes and brush my cheeks against his cheek. "I'll talk to you soon."  
  
I watch him walk away, the wind ruffling his jacket, and turn back to the water. It's getting dark now, the sun hovering over water. In the distance a dolphin jumps, its body arching against milky shades of orange and purple, red and gold. I cross my arms over my stomach and the scar begins to itch again. It's funny how one thin line of raised flesh could change my entire life. All I do now is think about the scar and what it could mean. I think about that baby, his laughter, his brilliant blue eyes. I try not to think about the man that I called his father. I haven't seen Sark in two years, or at least not that I can remember. Not that it means anything. I can't remember two years of my life anyway, two years when I apparently had Sark's baby, or so my dreams leave me to believe. Sark and me? A baby? Now I know I'm going crazy. It's time to go home.  
  
~ * ~  
  
I start out in my bed, but as usual I end up in my lounge chair, a blanket wrapped around me. I finally fall asleep to the sound of waves and wind and the night. There are no dreams about that little boy tonight, no visions of cloudless skies and white sand and crystal-clear water. Tonight my dreams are filled with images of red wine and silken sheets and candlelight.  
  
It's morning and sunlight is just beginning to stream through the curtains. I'm lying in a massive bed, naked, and I'm not alone. I'm on my side, curled against a hard, muscular, masculine body. He has one well-muscled forearm curled across my stomach, pulling me closer to his hard chest. I roll carefully so I don't wake him, turn to face my companion, and find myself staring into two pools of brilliant blue. "Good morning, Agent Bristow," Sark says in that arrogant, haughty, British voice of his. "Sleep well?"  
  
I never get to give an answer. I jerk awake, my breathing uneven and my skin flushed. I'm hot all over and I toss the blanket off. I press a hand to my forehead, wondering if I have a fever or I'm just turned on from my dream. I'm cool as a cucumber. It must be the damn dream. Like clockwork, the scar starts to itch again, but this time I can't get it to stop. It's like my body is telling me, compelling me, to figure out the truth. I sigh heavily. I can't run from the past anymore, but I don't know what's worse: finding out the truth or living in denial.  
  
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	3. Ready to Run

Author's Note:  
  
Thanks for all the great responses. I hope you enjoy this chapter.   
  
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"Is everyone tugging at your idea to be free?"  
  
- "Elysium," Madness  
  
~ * ~  
  
I finally got myself checked out and it's exactly what I thought it was. I've been seeing the same doctor for the last ten years and I think he has some idea of what I do for a living. Or at least I think he does, because he didn't even blink when I came in and told him I couldn't remember if I had a baby or not. I remember sitting in the examining room nervously, still wearing one of those crinkly, paper gowns, when my doctor walked in. He looked confused, tired, and very worried. "We have a very serious problem, Sydney," he said.  
  
It took a moment for his concern to register. It had all seemed so impossible, so improbable, and I had been regarding the entire experience with a sense of cold detachment. I knew I had a scar on my stomach, I knew what it could mean, but it never really occurred to me that I could be a mommy. "What?" I asked a little too nonchalantly and he looked at me strangely.   
  
"Sydney, do you remember when we discussed what this scar could be?"  
  
I nodded. "Of course. You think I was pregnant. I think you're crazy."  
  
"Sydney, you were pregnant. I looked at the ultrasound. There's evidence of a scar along your uterus and as you know, a scar along your pubic bone. You're very lucky, Sydney. Whoever took care of you did a very good job. There's no scar tissue and I don't foresee any permanent damage."  
  
I shook my head in disbelief. "But you said it could be any number of things. I could have cut myself, or. . .or" I searched for words. "Or I could have had my appendix out!"  
  
He shook his head sadly, his eyes full of pity. "The scar is in the wrong place for an appendix operation. You had a baby, Sydney," he said softly. "I'm sorry I can't give you the news you want."  
  
"No," I whispered. "No, no, no, no! You're lying. Did Kendall put you up to this? My father? Who do you work for?" So much for calm detachment; I was so surprised my shoulders practically shook with anger.   
  
"I don't work for anyone, Sydney. I know this is difficult for you to hear, but we need to deal with it."  
  
"There's nothing to deal with. I had a baby and how he's gone. I can't do anything about it." My words were calm this time, cold and crisp. As the surprise wore off I succumbed to numbing shock. I knew what he'd said, I heard about my baby, but it wasn't sinking in.   
  
He cocked his head and examined me curiously, his eyes searching my face. "What?" I demanded. "Why are you looking at me like that?"  
  
"You said your child was a boy."  
  
"No, I didn't!"  
  
"Yes, you did. Sydney, is there something you're not telling me?"  
  
I sighed heavily and rubbed the scar on my stomach. "I've been having these dreams," I said softly. "About my baby."  
  
"What about your baby?"  
  
"It's not much. I'm on this porch, somewhere near the ocean. It's sunny and bright and I hear laughter behind me so I turn around and there he is."  
  
"Your son?"  
  
I heard my voice get soft, almost wistful. "He's really beautiful, like an angel. Blonde hair, blue eyes, looks nothing like me. In fact, he looks just like--" I stop, press a shaky hand to my mouth. I can't bring myself to mention that he looks like Sark or that he has my mother's eyes. I bring his tiny face to mind, hear his laughter in my ears, and realize how much time I've lost. I was pregnant, had a baby, raised a baby, hell I conceived a baby--and I can't remember any of it. "Oh, god," I whispered. "This is real isn't it?"   
  
He sighed sympathetically and put a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Sydney, I know this is difficult. Is there someone you can talk to? Someone I can call?"  
  
It took me a moment to respond. "No, don't call anyone. I know someone."  
  
"You're sure? I can recommend a lot of good people--"  
  
"Thank you," I interrupted. "But I'll be fine."   
  
"You're sure? Do you want me to drive you home?"  
  
"No, I think I just need some time alone, let it all sink in, you know?"   
  
He squeezed my hand. "Take care, Sydney."  
  
"You too."  
  
~ * ~  
  
Two hours later I'm sitting on the beach staring blankly at the ocean. I'm getting so predictable it's not even funny anymore. It felt good and I'm much more relaxed when I pick up and go home, but the instant I step foot in my apartment it all goes to waste. My apartment's a big space, lots of windows and light, but I feel claustrophobic. My heartbeat quickens and my chest hurts with the effort it takes to simply breathe. I rush to the patio push the doors open with a desperate shove. I breathe in mouthfuls of cool, salty air and press a hand to my forehead. My skin is clammy and cold, and my fingers shake a little. I know I can't go on like this. It's almost at the point where I'll have to camp out on the beach to survive. I sink to the ground and gather my knees to my chest. "Sydney, get a grip," I say out loud, but all I can do is rest my chin against my legs and stare out at the sea. Inside, I hear my phone ring, but ignore it, as I've been ignoring all calls for the last few weeks. My dad actually kept his word and has left me alone, but Will calls at least once a day. The poor guy just can't seem to take a hint. I've blocked his calls, ignored his calls, but he won't give up. I know at some point I'll have to start responding to him again if I want any friends when I get my life together, but not yet. Right now I can't seem to go a day without a panic attack and that's not exactly conducive to a friendship.   
  
I push off the deck and open the door to my apartment. The sun is just beginning to set, bright swatches of light filling the room, and something glints bright and silvery in the corner. It's a picture frame, one of my parents and me when I was a little girl. It's the way I like to remember them, happy and full of love, before my mother destroyed our lives. I pick the frame up, surprised by the innocence in my mother's eyes, the sincerity of her smile, and suddenly I know exactly what to do. I might be nearly thirty-years-old, independent and on my own for almost a decade, but I do what any girl in her right mind would--I run home to my mother.  
  
~ * ~  
  
It takes nearly an entire day, and a little deception lies, to get to the tiny, Pacific island my mother now calls home. First and foremost, I had to lie to my father. I called him, just like I said I would, and told him I was going on a trip. He asked for itinerary, phone numbers, addresses--and it broke my heart to lie. It was the first time we'd spoken in over three weeks and I couldn't tell him the truth. If he found out I was going to see my mother over him he would be hurt, feel betrayed, and right now I need him on my side. The only positive thing that's happened since I died is my relationship with my father and I can't destroy that by hurting to him; so I lie instead. I tell him I'm just going to get in my car and drive, and I did drive--to the airport.   
  
The sun is just setting when my plane touches down on a runway surrounded by frilly palms and brilliant flowers. I didn't tell her I'm coming, it was going to be a surprise, but there's a car waiting for me at the edge of the landing strip. The driver is just like everyone else who works for her: dark, mysterious, and very Russian. He introduces himself as Sergei and tells me that my mother is expecting me. I don't even bother asking how she knows. It's so hard, because I want to remember her the way she looked in the picture in my living room, but I meet someone like this man and instantly reminded how cold, calculating, manipulative, and dangerous she is. Still, I know that deep down, in her own way, she loves me and that's why I'm here. She might be a highly-trained assassin and enemy of the USA, but she's still my mother, and even more importantly, in my own way I love her.  
  
We pull up at whitewashed house on a bluff overlooking the ocean. There's a wide porch wrapping around the house and for an instant a memory flashes before my eyes. I see myself standing on the same porch, my arms wrapped around my extended abdomen as I look out at the ocean. I look down for a second and realize there's another set of arms wrapped around me, strong, well-muscled arms with long-fingered hands that caress my belly. "Kick for, Daddy," I hear a British-tinged voice whisper in my ear.   
  
I gasp, feel my bag slip out of my hand and crash to the ground. A hand tugs lightly on my arm. "Ms. Bristow?" Sergei asks in heavily accented Russian. "Are you all right?"  
  
I blink a few times against the bright sunshine as the memory slips away as quickly as it came. "I've been here before, haven't I?" I ask him, but he simply stares at me with blank innocence.   
  
"Irina is waiting," he answers. "Why don't you go inside? You must be tired after your trip."  
  
"I think I'm going for a walk instead," I say and start towards the water. What started out as a simple trip to see my mother has turned out to be much more, too much in fact. I'm so angry I could scream. I can't believe she knows what happened to me. I remember that first day I talked to her when I got back and she was all sympathetic smiles, reassuring me she'd do whatever she could to help me remember. Liar. All these weeks I've been turning myself inside and out trying to remember and she's known all along.  
  
"You're mother is waiting," Sergei says and reaches for my arm again, but I slip out of his grasp.  
  
"I don't care. I'll see her when I'm ready," I say angrily and storm off down the beach, sand kicking up at my heels. I can feel his eyes on my retreating back and expect him to come after me, but instead he grumbles something under his breath in Russian and drags my baggage inside the house.   
  
I stand at the water's edge, watching the glittery sparkle of sunlight hitting the surface. The water is so different here than at home, crystal clear and deep blue. I can see a coral reef and it looks like every color of the rainbow shimmering under the surface. I sink down into the sand and pull of my sandals, burying my bare feet under its silken cover. I lean back on my hands, letting grains sift between my fingers, closing my eyes to let the warm sunlight caress my face.   
  
It's like a dream, the water lapping softly against my legs as I pull him with me into the sand. It's night, the air hot and sultry against our bare bodies, a million stars in the inky black sky. A breeze blows over my hot cheeks, and I cry out at the contrast of feelings, my hot skin and the cool water, his hard body pressed against my soft curves. I wrap my legs tighter around his hips and gasp as his lips trace a pattern down my neck. Above the stars seem to shatter in the sky and I fly and fly and fly. .   
  
I open my eyes and quickly stand up, brushing sand away. My mother's house looms above me, beckoning me to find its secrets. I came here to get away, to escape, but it seems my past had a way of catching up with me. I don't know what my mother knows, or what she's hiding, but I know something led me here and I can't avoid it any longer. With a heavy sigh I trudge up the walk to the house and what I can only guess is my destiny.  
  
~ * ~  
  
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	4. Don't Tell Mama

Author's Note:  
  
Hey! Because this chapter has taken so long to get out, I'm making it twice as long for all of you who've been so patiently waiting! Thank you again for all your wonderful responses. Your feedback has been inspiring me to keep going, especially since no one can find this story. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter.  
  
~ * ~  
  
"Listen to me now wipe your eyes  
  
Relax your hand and come inside  
  
Lift back your head and swallow your pride  
  
Don't be ashamed in me confide"  
  
- "Elysium," Madness  
  
~ * ~  
  
When I was a little girl I always dreamed of a beautiful house where my family would live. It would be big, airy, full of light, and my mother would come back to us. The house of my dreams was nothing like the den of gloom where I grew up in. My childhood home was big, lots of rooms and windows, but it always felt wrong. There was no warmth in that house, no affection or love. It was cold, so cold and dead, like we were ghosts. I grew up in that house for twenty years and it's like I never lived there at all. I can't tell you the color of the paint in the hallway or the shape of the tiles on the kitchen floor. But I can tell you that I never felt more alone when I was in that house and living with man who was supposed to love me but could never quite bring himself to show it. I vowed to myself, when I finally left home for the last time, that I would never live in a place like that again.  
  
Standing here, in the foyer of my mothers' house, it's like everything I imagined as a little girl. Fading sunlight streams in through the open windows and the pale wooden floors gleam. I can feel my mother's touch everywhere, from the red curtains to the Annunciation icon on the far wall. I never took her forever a religious woman, but then again I never really knew her at all. I knew Laura Bristow, the woman she created, but not Irina Derevko. My mother is as much a stranger to me as Sergei, still faithfully guarding the door.  
  
"She's in her garden," Sergei says in his heavily accented English. "I'll take you to her."  
  
"No, I'll find her myself." Confronting my mother is something I need to do on my own, without the intrusion and supervision of a bodyguard. I've lived nearly all my adult life under surveillance, knowing my most private moments are on videotape somewhere for all to see, but this is too personal, too private. No one is going to see this but my mother and me.  
  
Like Sergei said, I find my mother in her garden, carefully grooming a brilliant row of gardenias. She's wearing a pair of baggy cargoes and tight tank and her long hair hangs loose around her shoulders. She looks beautiful, happy, free. I last remember her locked in her cage, pacing like the animal she was, watching me with clever eyes. In the feeble light she looks so young I can almost imagine the girl she used to be, the girl my father fell in love with, but all I remember is the monster she grew into.  
  
My plan had been to storm into the garden, give my mother a piece of my mind, and get the hell off this island, but I freeze as soon as I see her. I know she didn't hear me coming, but she turns anyway. I may have been out of the secret agent business for two years, but there are some things you never forget, like how to tread silently. But this is Irina Derevko and nothing gets past her. It's like she can sense me, the way she looks up the instant I walk into her garden. She pushes her hat off her face revealing long, sun-streaked hair and big, dark eyes--my eyes. Now I know that's what I'm seeing every time I look in the mirror. I'm not looking at myself or even at my mother, but the reflection of my mother through me. I see the legacy of her betrayal in my brown eyes, the hidden pain and fear a little girl would feel when her mother dies and leaves her all alone. Now when I meet her gaze I see the same thing in her eyes, the pain she felt when she left me. Or at least I think that's what it is. I can never be sure what's real when it comes to her.  
  
It takes her forever to say something. "Hello, Sydney," she says softly. Her accent is thicker, more pronounced, but then again she's been living among her own people for years now. I bet it's good for her, being around people who speak her language and know her customs again, but then I scold myself for wanting anything good for this woman. "She betrayed you, again," I remind myself. "You feel no sympathy for her."  
  
"Hi, Mom," I say icily.  
  
She takes a step forward, but pauses in mid-step. We're staring at each other, brown on brown, and have been since the moment I arrived in the garden. I want to look away, to break her searching gaze, but I'm too stubborn. I'm not going to let her win, even over something this insignificant. "Sydney, I know you're angry with me--" she starts, but I'm too quick.  
  
"Angry?" I yell and take a deep breath to calm down. "You think I'm angry?" My voice is calmer now, but the tone remains just as biting. "I'm not angry. I'm furious. Do you know what you put me through? I can't remember the last two years of my life. The man I loved? He's married. My best friend? He's traumatized. My father? He's aged ten years--and I can't remember any of it. But you--you've known all along! You knew where I was, you knew what happened to me! You listened to me cry and struggle to remember and you never said a word. Not one word." I'm practically whispering and my voice catches on a sob. "I thought you were my mother. I've never been more wrong in my life."  
  
She's staring at the ground as if the dirt is suddenly fascinating to her, and when she looks up again there are tears in her eyes. "I never wanted to hurt you, Sydney."  
  
"Than why didn't you tell me?"  
  
She takes a deep breath, runs a hand through her hair. "It wasn't my secret to tell."  
  
"What?"  
  
"It wasn't my place to tell you. You had to learn on your own."  
  
I shake my head incredulously. "Are you serious? All this time you've known what happened to me and you wanted me to find out on my own instead? That could take years!"  
  
"But it didn't. You're here, aren't you? You've already started to remember."  
  
"Sergei told you."  
  
She smiles. "I'm glad you're here, Sydney."  
  
I wish I could say the same, I really do. I want so desperately to have the mother I've always dreamed of, but instead I have her, Irina Derevko, Russian spy extraordinare. I want to trust her, I want to believe in her, but I think of all the times she's betrayed me and let me down and I can't bring myself to do it again. Not yet, not when I'm this vulnerable, and the way things are going, not ever. I say nothing while she smiles tenderly.  
  
"Come inside when you're ready," she continues. "We'll talk."  
  
Without a word she turns on her heel towards the house. The sun has fully set now and the moon shimmers over the sea. The water catches the light, silvery and slick against the dark night. I close my eyes and feel the wind on my face, the smell of sea in my hair. God, it feels good to be near the ocean again, to be back in this place. It's like I never left here at all. Without taking a single step I know the gate in the northern corner leads to a path down to the ocean; I know my mother planted the lemon tree last summer after a big rain storm took down the original; I know the names of all the flowers and how to care for them; I know I'm the one who planted them.  
  
Shaken, I open my eyes and massage my temples. This place is driving me nuts. I've been here less than three hours and I'm already beginning to lose it. The memories. . .I can't seem to escape the memories. Everywhere I go I'm reminded of a past I can't remember, see a tiny fragment of my life flash before my eyes before I can place it. I'm going crazy, being in this place, knowing it holds all the answers, and being unable to put it all together.  
  
I look to the house, where light breezes out through the curtains and soft jazz catches the wind. That's where the answers are, in that house with that woman. I don't want to face her, but I have to, if I want to know what happened to me. After all, that's the reason I came here, right?  
  
~ * ~  
  
It never really hit me that my mother is a spy until I saw her in her own environment. I only knew her as Laura Bristow, American English teacher, and seeing her as Irina Derevko is a wake up call. There's a sickle and star carving on the wall and Russian books on the coffee table.  
  
"Sit down, Sydney," she says and puts down a weathered copy of "Crime and Punishment."  
  
Again, that stealth way of knowing I'm in the room. I reluctantly take a seat across the room, my eyes never leaving her.  
  
She smiles again. "I'm very happy to see you, Sydney. I was beginning to think you'd never come."  
  
"You could always come to me."  
  
"We know that's not possible. Your father might have been kind enough to provide me with your phone number, but we both know I'll be back in CIA custody the minute I step foot in Los Angeles. I'd be sentenced to death for treason." She looks at me pointedly. "And this time there'll be no Senator to interfere."  
  
"Would that be such a bad thing?"  
  
She laughs and sips a glass of wine. . .or is it vodka? I can't tell from this distance. "Sydney, you don't mean that. You wouldn't be here if you did."  
  
"Maybe I just want to know where the hell I've been for the last two years."  
  
She shakes her head. "You didn't know you needed me to do that. You came here because you wanted to see me."  
  
"And it was a mistake. I just want to figure everything out and go home."  
  
Her smile is soft, even motherly and she reaches out to lay her hand on mine. "You are home."  
  
I roll my eyes and look away. "My home is in LA."  
  
"Not for the last two years."  
  
My gaze is sharp when I turn to her again, but there are tears blocking my vision. "Mom, please tell me," I plead.  
  
"I can't. It's not my story to tell. You'll figure it all out soon enough."  
  
"I don't want to wait. Do you know what it's been like the last few months not knowing where I've been or what I've done for the last two years? Not knowing if I have a child or not, if the family I keep seeing on the beach is real or a figment of my imagination? Do you know what it's like not to know who you are anymore?"  
  
When I look into her brown eyes this time I see myself. She does know what it's like; that's who she's been for the last thirty years. I can see the indecision in her eyes, the way her masterful mind weighs the pros and cons. "I brought you here," she finally says. "You'd been in a fight. You had bruised ribs and cuts--there was blood, so much blood." She pauses for a moment, sips her drink again. "My men found you and brought you here."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"To rest, recuperate. You were nearly dead, Sydney."  
  
"No," I said, shaking my head. "You could have easily dumped me at the Ops Center or a hospital. Even easier, you could have just called 911. There was no reason to drag me all the way here. You had a different reason for moving me."  
  
"I forgot how smart you are."  
  
"Or maybe you're more transparent than you think."  
  
"You have a smart mouth too."  
  
"You didn't answer my question."  
  
"I brought you here for your protection," she explains softly.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"When Sloane defected he gave the reins to me. I had full control of our operation, but he still knew the location of the Rambali devices in our possession. He wanted them for personal use."  
  
"To fulfill the prophecy," I said. "What does that have to do with me?"  
  
"He wanted you for the prophecy. You are the only person who can fulfill it. He was going to kidnap you, torture you--whatever he needed to put you in his employ."  
  
"So you rescued me."  
  
"My intention was to keep you here until I could eliminate Sloane. I never intended for you to get hurt in the process."  
  
"Did you know, about the double, about Francie?"  
  
There's a hint of guilt in her voice. "I'm sorry about your friend, Sydney."  
  
"So you knew."  
  
"Who do you take me for, Sydney? Do you think I'd let a detail like that slip through the cracks? Yes, I knew. Yes, I didn't tell you."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"You don't trust me."  
  
"So?"  
  
"I don't trust you either. I couldn't tell you because you would have gone straight to your father and he would have gone straight to Kendall. You might have taken out the double, but you would have taken out yourself too. Without Allison in position Sloane would have come after you himself.. .and I couldn't let that happen."  
  
"Why not? Wouldn't that have solved all your problems if the big bad CIA was out of the picture?" My tone is angry, biting, and possibly a bit too cold. Her mask cracks and a wave of hurt washes over her face. "I'm a lot of things, Sydney," she says, her voice raspy. "But I am still your mother and I always will be. I don't know if you believe me or not, but I love you and I would do anything for you. So to answer your question, no that wouldn't have solved the problem. In fact it would have ruined the most precious thing in my life, the only thing that really matters."  
  
"Rambaldi devices?"  
  
"You."  
  
"Me?"  
  
"You're the only real thing in my life, Sydney."  
  
"So you brought me here to save me."  
  
"Of course. I wasn't about to let you die."  
  
"And you didn't have an agenda of your own?"  
  
She laughs again. "Of course I had an agenda. I always have an agenda. But that doesn't mean I couldn't help you in the process."  
  
I glance around the room, at the red curtained windows and pale walls. "How long was I here?"  
  
"Almost two years."  
  
"That doesn't make sense. If you were only protecting me from Sloane you should have let me go as soon as I was healed, but you still kept me here. Why?"  
  
She changes the subject abruptly. "You said you remembered things. What do you remember, Sydney?"  
  
I hate this game, avoiding the real question and telling half-truths instead. I hate being put on the spot like this. I could lie. I could make things up, test her loyalty, determine if she's with me or against me, but I don't. Not this time. Not when I'm so close. So I tell the truth and hope it works in my favor. "I remember this house," I say softly. "I'm standing the porch watching the ocean. I'm pregnant and there's a man with me. He's rubbing my belly, talking to the baby." I watch her while I talk, looking for any sign of reaction. Her face is blank, indifferent, but there's a tiny flash of recognition in her eyes. I smile inwardly; finally, I'm on the right track.  
  
"What else?" she presses.  
  
"I remember the baby. He's young, barely a year old. He has blond hair and blue eyes. He's beautiful, Mom. So beautiful. . ." my voice trails off. "He looks just like--" I catch myself in mid-sentence, but she looks up knowingly. My heart seems to clench so tightly I can't breathe--and like clockwork, the scar on my stomach starts to itch.  
  
"He looks like who, Sydney?"  
  
"No one, nothing," I mumble and jerk out of my chair. I practically run to the window and jerk it open, letting the night air brush my flushed cheeks. After a few minutes my breathing returns to normal and I stop rubbing my scar. My knee bumps the window seat and as I reach down to rub my leg a flash of fluffy brown catches my eye. It's a teddy bear, soft and well loved with a big red heart over a big potbelly. I pick up it up and examine the bright heart as another memory flashes before my eyes.  
  
I'm crouched on the floor, wearing a loose peasant skirt and tight tank top, holding my giggling baby in my arms. Across the room my mother bends down, holding the teddy bear in one hand. "Come here, vnuk," she says. "Look what babushka has." The baby takes off at a start, wobbling across the room on tiny legs to claim his present. My mother wraps him in her arms and presses a kiss to his smooth cheek. "That's a good boy," she says with a laugh. "Do you like you bear? It's perfect for him, isn't it, Sydney?"  
  
"Sydney?" I hear again and it takes me a moment to realize I'm no longer living a dream. I whip around to face my mother, clutching the bear to my chest.  
  
"Sydney, are you okay? You look like you just saw a ghost." I think she's right. All this time I've been chasing a ghost and I just realized that ghost is me. I've been chasing myself and my past and the decisions I made two years ago. I feel my breath catch in my throat again.  
  
"Sydney?" my mother asks again as footsteps sound on the wooden floors.  
  
Sergei appears in the doorway and my mother glares at him. "I told you not to bother us."  
  
"He's home," Sergei says and in the background I hear a door slam. Two sets of footsteps sound on the floors, one making a harsh tapping sound.  
  
"Irina?" a very British voice calls out. "We're home." And before I have time to react, he's here--and he's not alone. A young woman, tall, blond, absolutely beautiful clings to his side, and in her arms, his chubby arms draped around her neck, is my baby.  
  
~ * ~  
  
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	5. Surprise, Surprise

Author's Note:  
  
Hey all! Sorry this took so long to update, but I was out of town for the weekend and didn't have time to write. Good thing work is really slow today. I've divided this chapter into two parts because it's getting a little too long. I'm working on Part II now so it should be up either later today or sometime tomorrow. Thank you to all who helped me with the PM lists. If anyone else would like one please let me know and I'll be happy to add more names. Thank you so much for all your wonderful responses to this story. I can honestly say I've never had more fun writing than I have working on "Elysium." If anyone's interested I'm also archiving at "sd-1.com" and "coverme.net" I hope you enjoy this chapter!  
  
~ * ~  
  
It's a funny thing, the way dreams work. When I'm lying in bed, eyes closed and body relaxed, it's easy to pretend the images drifting before my eyes aren't real. I can wake up the next morning, confused and a little shaken, but attribute whatever I saw to my imagination. I can pretend my baby doesn't really exist, pretend I never made love to Sark on a beach. I can pretend my life is still the way it was two years ago, before I lost everything I ever valued.   
  
But now, standing in my mother's living room, staring at a flesh and blood version of my little boy, I can't pretend anymore. He's exactly how I remembered him, chubby and beautiful with pale hair curling around his face. He sleeps soundly in this strange woman's arms, his face curled against her neck.   
  
For a moment all I can do is stare open-mouthed as the room swirls around me.   
  
Sark turns to the woman and mumbles something under his breath. She frowns and tightens her arms around my baby while my hands tightened into fists. I'm about two minutes away from slamming my fist into her face if she doesn't let go of my son. Sark brushes her hair off her face and smiles while she seems to melt. Literally melt. Her features soften and her eyes light up and my mother's hand curls around my wrist. "Not now," she says and looks pointedly at the girl. "There's time for that later."  
  
As if she knows she's about to have her teeth knocked out, the girl gives Sark one last longing look and turns on her heel, my baby still clasped in her arms. I try to go after them, but my mother is holding me firmly in place. What is wrong with her? I just spent the last hour pouring my heart out about my missing baby and she won't let me see him? I tug harder, but she motions to Sergei and he wraps one enormous arm around my waist. That ends the struggle real fast.   
  
Sark straightens and ambles towards us casually, or as casual as he can in a thousand- dollar suit. His eyes run from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, lingering on a few choice spots. . .like my mouth and my breasts. Under his close scrutiny I'm very aware of how crappy I look. My nose is sunburned, my hair windblown, and I'm wearing a faded sweatshirt and cut-offs. I came here expecting my mother and a confrontation; I never expected Sark. . "Ms. Bristow," he says. "How nice to see you again." It takes me forever to respond and the longer it takes the wider his smirk gets. "Cat got your tongue?" he teases.  
  
"What are you doing here?" I finally say. "Aren't you supposed to be in prison?"  
  
He exchanges a knowing look with my mother. "I don't have time for this, Irina. We need to discuss my trip."  
  
She smiles at him indulgently. "In a minute." She turns to me. "You must be tired, Sydney. I'll have Sergei take you to your room. We can talk in the morning."  
  
"What?" I cry. "How can you pretend that didn't just happen? I want my baby!"  
  
He tries to cover it, but Sark goes pale at mention of the baby. His lips tighten and his eyes seem to glaze with ice. "It's late, Sydney," he says. "He needs his rest."  
  
"I haven't seen him in months! I won't be more than a minute!" I cannot believe I'm begging Sark for permission to see my own child. This is getting too surreal, and I'm grateful my mother is still holding my arm because I think I'm on the verge of passing out—or slamming my fist into his face instead of that girl's.  
  
He takes a step towards me, his eyes blazing. "Tell me, Sydney. Can you remember his birthday?"  
  
"No."  
  
"His favorite food?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Can you even remember his name?"  
  
I hang my head. "No," I whisper. Wait, what am I doing? He is not going to win this one. I'm done with the victim act. It's time to remind Mr. Sark just who he's dealing with. I take a step towards him. "You know what, Sark? I can't remember a thing about the past two years. But I know that little boy is my son and I know I love him and no one, especially not you, is going to keep me from him." My eyes are blazing and my cheeks are flushed—but I'm not going to let him win.   
  
He bends his head so his lips brush my ear. "Do you remember this, Sydney?" he asks and runs one hand down my side, his fingers massaging the scar on my stomach. "Do you remember the day you laid our baby in my arms? Do you remember making love in the waves?" His breath is hot on my cheek and his fingers feel like fire against my skin.   
  
I suck in a breath. "You know I don't."  
  
"Then stop talking about things you don't understand." He pulls away, leaving me quaking in my flip-flops. So much for tough, badass Sydney. It's more like movie-of-the-week Sydney who needs her Mommy to hold her hand. He ignores me and looks at my mother expectantly. "This can't wait, Irina. Get rid of her."   
  
"Hey!" I cry, finding my voice again. "Do not talk to me like that!"  
  
My mother sighs heavily, clearly not in the mood to deal with us. "Sydney, let it go. Go to bed. You'll feel better tomorrow."  
  
"But—" I start, but Sergei is already hauling me away.   
  
"Good night, Sydney," my mother calls over my shoulder, but I'm too angry to respond.   
  
All this switching emotions back and forth is making me exhausted. A nice long nap would be wonderful, but I have more important work to do. I fall against Sergei's side and I'm practically incoherent when he deposits me at my bedroom. It's a beautiful room, but I don't care. I sit like a good girl on the enormous bed, bouncing a few times to test its softness, and wait it out. It takes forever before I'm convinced Sergei is gone and it's safe to venture outside. My luggage is lying in a pile on the floor and I slip on a pair of black running pants. I take a careful step and smile when I don't hear a thing. My mother can banish me to my room like I'm a little girl but that doesn't mean I have to stay.   
  
I tug the door closed and creep down the hall. I wish I knew where I was going, but nothing looks familiar. It figures. The only time I remember things is when I least want to think about the last two years, and now that I'm calm and rational I can't remember a thing. It's not worth deliberating over, not when I such an important mission to complete. I tiptoe to the top of the stairs and listen. Below, my mother and Sark's voices drift up the stairwell. They're speaking Russian in hushed tones. I can speak enough Russian to get by, but not from this distance. I sigh inwardly and tiptoe back down the hall. I guess I'll have to learn everything the hard way.  
  
As I slowly walk back to my room one of the wooden doorways catches my eye. There are about a million rooms in this house, most of them unused, but there's something different about this door. The wood is a little warped and there's a slight indent in the floor, as if many sets of feet have traveled over this threshold. I know instantly whose room this is.  
  
I feel like a contestant in a game show. What's behind door number one? A trip to the Bahamas? A new car? Or my son. I'm living on a tropical island and I have twelve Wranglers at my disposal. I'm hoping this is door number three.  
  
I take a deep breath and tentatively grip the doorknob. This shouldn't be so difficult, I'm only opening a door, but I can't get my hand to stop shaking. Up until three months ago I didn't even know this little boy existed, or at least I couldn't remember him. But now he might be just behind this thin piece of wood, where I can hold him and kiss him and love him. It scares me to death. I don't know what it's like to have a mother. The only one I ever knew died when I was six and my father was to angry and bitter to make up for it. I barely remember bedtime stories and bubble baths and my hair in pigtails. I mostly remember crying myself to sleep because my father was never there to tuck me in. How can I go in that room, with that innocent child, and love him? I don't know how.   
  
What was it my father used to say when I asked him for help with my math homework and he turned me down because had yet another business trip? Ah, yes, "You'll never get anywhere unless you try," I whisper out loud. That was when I'd turn to my homework and tackle it furiously just to prove I could do something he asked, or in my child's mind, make him proud.  
  
Well, I don't have Algebra in front of me and my father isn't flying across the Atlantic to defend his country. But I have an equally difficult challenge in front of me and I'm not going to get past it unless I try.  
  
I take a deep breath and turned the handle.   
  
~ * ~   
  
Please, please, please respond! 


	6. Truth Takes Time

~ * ~  
  
When I first fell in love with Vaughn I used to plan out our life together. I knew every detail of our wedding, from my gown to the look in his eyes when he lifted the veil from my face. We were going to have two children, William and Laura, in memory of the parents we'd lost, because to me Laura Bristow would always be my mother. I thought I'd love Vaughn forever, but that dream came crashing down when I woke up in Hong Kong and lost two years of my life. And when he looked at me with a gold ring flashing on his finger, I knew it was all over. He might love me forever, but it would never be the same, because Michael Vaughn had taken a vow to honor and cherish another woman and he would never give that up. He was too noble, too honorable, too good-hearted to leave her, even for the woman he'd loved first. No, I knew when I looked into his eyes that first night that we were through. That night, I thought I lost all my dreams of husbands and children and houses full of laughter. I thought I would never be happy again, never live the life I've wanted since I was six years old.   
  
But now, standing in the doorway of this room, gazing at the slumbering baby in his crib, I know that every dream I ever had has come true. Maybe it didn't happen the way I expected, but it happened all the same.   
  
The room is exactly as I imagined when I was a little girl, especially the rocking chair by the big bay window. I always wanted one of those to rock my baby to sleep at night. Looking around, at the color of the paint and the type of furniture, I wonder if I decorated this room. It certainly is in my taste, but whom was I decorating it for? Myself? My son? My family? I feel dizzy at the thought of being family with Sark. "Stop, Syd," I say to myself. "Concentrate on the present. Worry about Sark later." I massage my temples for a moment and feel a little calmer.   
  
I tiptoe to the crib along the far wall, barely making a sound on the soft carpet. I peer over the side rail and my breath catches in my throat at the sight of my son sleeping peacefully. He has one thumb tucked in his mouth and his other arm is wrapped around a stuffed lamb. There's something familiar about the animal and I realize it's one of mine, a gift from my mother on my fourth Easter. It's been missing from my apartment, I assumed it was lost after my fight with not-Francie, but I guess I brought it with me here. It's a little torn, a little faded, but very well loved. I'm happy it brings so much peace to my son.   
  
I should have been content to simply stare at him, let him get his rest so we can have our big reunion tomorrow, but I can't resist running a finger down his petal-soft cheek.   
  
Big mistake.   
  
I know instantly he's the son of spies; even the slightest touch sets him off. He jerks in his sleep and opens brilliant blue eyes. I can see their bright glow even in the dim moonlight. His little mouth opens and out comes the loudest, shrillest cry I've ever heard. I look around anxiously, expecting Sergei to bound in and swoop to the baby's rescue, but the door remains closed.   
  
I take a nervous step back as my heart starts pounding in my chest. Tears are rolling down his cheeks and he looks miserable, but the last thing I can do is pick him up. I've never held a baby in my life. What if I drop him or squeeze him too tight? What if I do something terribly wrong and he hates me before I get the chance to know him? His cries get louder and I stare down at him, gripping the crib slats with white knuckled hands. "Oh, baby," I whisper. "What do I do?" Tears prick at the back of my eyes and I'm on the verge of sobbing from frustration. I don't know how much more of this I can take. All I want to do is comfort my baby and I'm terrified to touch him.  
  
It's obvious this little tantrum isn't going to stop unless I do something, so I squeeze my eyes shut and reach into the crib. There's a roaring in my ears as my arms wrap around soft baby skin and before I know what I'm doing I scoop him into my arms. I clasp him to my chest just like that blonde girl did before and open my eyes. To my surprise everything is fine. My son is lying peacefully in my arms, his thumb safely tucked in his mouth, and he's watching me with wide blue eyes. The roar in my ears dies down, my heartbeat returns to normal, and a wave of peace seems to wash over me.   
  
I'm not afraid anymore. It doesn't seem to matter that I can't remember being a mother or even what I named my son, because I instinctively know what to do. I remember talking about it during one of my visits to that bitch of a CIA shrink. It was right after my mother shot me and I was having a little trouble dealing. She asked me a question, a simple question about growing up without a mother, but it struck a chord and everything came pouring out: how all I wanted was a normal life with a husband and babies, my fears about being unable to love my children because I didn't know a mother's love myself, my worries of screwing up my kids the way my dad did to me. I sobbed and cried and carried on and at the end she looked me right in the eye and told me I'd be okay. "You're a good person, Sydney," she's said. "The past doesn't always shape the present. You'll be wonderful mom."  
  
Standing here, holding my son in my arms, for the first time I believe her because nothing in my life has ever felt so right. I hug my little angel closer and he opens his big, blue eyes and stares up at me.  
  
"Hey there," I whisper. "Remember me?"  
  
A wide smile breaks out across his face. "Momma, home" he giggles and purses his lips. I frown, wondering what he wants and cursing myself for not being able to remember. A good mother would know instantly what's wrong with her child, but I don't even know his name. I feel like the crappiest mom on earth. He stares at me and I lean down to kiss him, but something flashes into my mind first. It's not a memory exactly, more like a sudden impulse, and instead of kissing him I rub his nose with mine, Eskimo style. I guess I got it right because he laughs loudly and tugs on my hair. I don't feel like such a bad person anymore. "Momma," he says again and my heart clenches. God, it feels good to hear him say those words. I might not be able to remember him, might be terrified of loving him, but I know deep down inside that I'm his mother and I do love him with all my heart. I just need to get over my own fears and guilt to show him.  
  
The clock on the way indicates it's nearly midnight, way past his bedtime, but this little reunion is keeping him awake. I want nothing more than to hold him tight for the rest of my life, but that's not what good mom would do. A good mom would put his needs before her own, because that's what parents do for their children, and he needs to go back to bed. Still, I'm not ready to let him go just yet.  
  
Carefully cradling him in my arms I walk towards the rocking chair by the window. Sitting in a wide beam of moonlight, its pale wood gleams and the intricate details of the cushions are clear. I can't help but gasp. It's the chair I've dreamed of since I was a little girl, complete with the needlepointed, fairytale seat I sketched in eighth grade art class. That pattern had been sacred to me, represented all the dreams I'd missed out on during my childhood. I promised myself to wait until I had a real family to love me before getting the chair, but here it is, in my mother's house of secrets. I look down at my son, still watching me with his father's blue eyes, "Were we a family, baby? Did you have a Mommy and Daddy to love you?" He's too young to answer the question, but I don't want to know anyway. Discovering my baby is enough drama; I don't think I can handle thinking about Sark as my family too.   
  
I grab a blanket from the back of the chair and settle in, wrapping the blanket around my baby. He's babbling in baby talk, rubbing his eyes furiously every other minute to stay awake. I smile at his antics and press a kiss to his forehead. "You need to go to sleep, baby," I whisper. "How about I sing you a song?" He giggles in response.  
  
If I thought waking him up was a mistake this is even worse. I know a lot of songs, a lot of good songs, but none appropriate to sing to a sleeping baby. I sit for a moment and hum absently to myself, running a hand through my baby's silky hair. I'm about to give up and pray he'll fall asleep on his own, when something pops into my head. I've been watching a lot of daytime TV lately and maybe the couple episodes of Sesame Street I sat through are paying off.   
  
Hush little baby don't say a word  
  
Momma's gonna buy you a mockingbird  
  
And if that mocking bird don't sing  
  
Momma's gonna buy you a diamond ring  
  
"That was his favorite song. You used to sing to him every night before bed."  
  
My head jerks up and the last note comes out on a squeak. Sark leans casually in the doorway, one hip pressed firmly against the doorjamb. He's wearing dark pants and dark shirt, but his sleeves are rolled up and the first few buttons of his shirt are undone and his hair looks messy, like he's been running his hands through it. He catches the stricken look on my face and smirks. "Someone got caught with her hand in the cookie jar. You shouldn't be here, Sydney."  
  
I hug my son closer to my chest. "I have every right to be with my son."  
  
"He needs his rest. He's not even two, Sydney. He shouldn't be up this late."  
  
"I know," I say and cringe at the hint of guilt in my voice. I didn't do anything wrong, but Sark makes me feel about two feet tall. "You know, he's been missing his mother for months now. A little reunion's not going to hurt him." My voice is stronger now, the guilt gone, and I smirk broadly myself. "I'm his mother, Sark. You can't tell me what to do."  
  
A frown creases his brow and he ambles over to us and leans down. "Give him to me."  
  
"No!" my voice is higher and louder than I intended, but I hold my ground. "I'm singing him to sleep."  
  
Sark sighs loudly. "As you pointed out, Sydney, you've been gone for months. We have a new routine." Again, the guilt factor sets in and I begin to feel Mommy Dearest; when he reaches for the baby this time I don't put up a fight.   
  
There are many things in my life I thought I'd never see: world peace, Sloane's head on a plate, Kendall getting a clue, but watching Mr. Sark with a baby ranks up there. The man is a trained assassin, cold, heartless, and cruel. He enjoys killing, finds pleasure in other's pain, yet he holds my baby like a piece of porcelain. A smile, a real smile not one of his trademark smirks curves his lips, as he tucks the baby's head into the contours of his chest.   
  
It's quite possibly the sexiest thing I've ever seen. It doesn't matter who the man is, there's just something so sexy about a man and baby it makes me want to drool. . .and reminds me how long it's been since I've gotten any. That makes me jump up real fast. What is wrong with me? Am I so desperate for play that I'm beginning to think Sark, my enemy is attractive? Or are my knees starting to flutter from the way his forearms bulge as he puts the baby in his crib, or the way his pants hang off lean hips, or that fingers I'm so used to handling the barrel of a gun are brushing curls off my baby's brow? I take a shaky breath and run a hand across my eyes. It is time to calm down and get it together. I don't care that we share a child. Sark is still Sark and I'm not backing down.   
  
I join him beside the crib and watch as he draws the blanket up the baby's chin and tucks the stuffed lamb under one arm. "He can't sleep without his blanket," Sark says. "He's had it since the day he was born."  
  
I can't bring myself to speak so I nod instead. Again, that feeling of surrealness overwhelms me. A year ago, if anyone told me I'd be standing beside a crib, bonding over my child with Mr. Sark, I would have laughed in his face. But now, given the course of the last few months nothing seems so strange anymore. We stand in companionable silence, watching our baby sleep. It should feel uncomfortable, but it doesn't, and I'm a little weirded-out by how natural it feels. It makes me wonder even more what happened during the last two years, about this house and this room the relationship we shared.   
  
I gaze down at my son, wondering how two people so wrong for one another could create such a perfect life. "Sark?" I ask, breaking the long silence.  
  
"What?" There's no trace of warmth in his voice, but there's no icy coldness either. I guess that means we're getting somewhere.  
  
"What's his name?" I ask softly  
  
Sark turns from the crib to face me. "Why do you ask?" The coldness is back in his voice and his mouth is set in a thin line again; so much for making progress. Every time he breaks down his wall just a little bit I mention the baby and he clams up again.   
  
"Because I'm his mother." I force my voice to remain as calm as possible. The last thing I want to do is piss him off enough to leave. "Please, tell me. You know I can't remember."  
  
He turns back to the crib. "You named him Adam."  
  
My Vaughn fantasies had always included babies named Tyler or Madison, thoroughly modern, unisex names. But this wasn't Vaughn and this wasn't our baby. Different strokes for different folks, I guess. "Do you know why I picked that name?" I asked softly.   
  
He laughs, but there's nothing humorous. It's harsh and grating and laced with bitterness. I close my eyes for a moment and wonder what I did to make him so angry. We're enemies, we've tried to kill one another numerous times, yet we can't talk about something as simple as baby names? Whatever I did must have been big, painful, to make him this closed off. I just wish I could remember what it was. "It means "mankind." You thought it was fitting, considering your role in the Rambaldi Prophecy."  
  
"Adam," I whisper. "That's a beautiful name."  
  
Finally, a hint of a smirk curves his lips. "His middle name is Michael." I jerk my head up sharply and his smirk grows broader. "After my father. Do you really think I'd name my son after a coward like Michael Vaughn?"  
  
I want to defend Vaughn, I want to tell Sark he's the bravest, kindest, noblest man I know—but I can't, not after his betrayal. I want to forgive him for breaking my heart, but every time I think about him a layer of ice clenches around my heart and I'm reminded of his wedding band glinting in the Hong Kong moonlight. I decide to steer the conversation away from Vaughn. "How old is he?" I ask. "I know he was walking when I. . . when I left. He was running too." Sark turns to me, and unreadable expression in his blue eyes.  
  
"How much do you remember?"  
  
"You didn't answer my question."  
  
"Answer mine first."  
  
I sigh loudly and run a frustrated hand through my hair. "Not much, just little flashes of memory here and there."  
  
"Such as. . ."  
  
My cheeks flame as I remember the beach dream and I'm thankful for the darkness of the room. "You and I on the porch when I was pregnant, playing with my mother and Adam. That's about it. I'm hoping I remember more over the next few days."  
  
"We'll see about that," he mutters under his breath.  
  
I'm a little testy now. I told him what he wanted to know and he still hasn't said anything to me. "I answered your question, now you need to answer mine. How old is Adam?"  
  
He sighs, like he's bored of this conversation. Typical Sark; he's not interested unless it directly benefits him. "Eighteen months."   
  
Tears prick the back of my eyes again. "I've missed so much time," I say and again, the guilt factor sets in.   
  
"Adam has been fine without you. He has other people to care for him."  
  
Now I'm beyond annoyed; I'm just angry. How dare he treat me like I'm inconsequential? I'm Adam's mother! "Like that blonde bimbo hanging all over you?" I hiss angrily. "You think she's an appropriate mother figure for your child!"  
  
He rolls his eyes. "Svetlana is Adam's nanny. She's done a wonderful job of caring for him in your absence." He puts emphasis on the word "absence" and I resist the urge to kick him. It's not fair that he punishes me for something I can't remember. But then I remember this is Mr. Sark and he doesn't understand the concept of playing fair. I'll have to play his game to keep up.   
  
"You're sleeping with her!" I point out. "She's servicing you more than Adam!"  
  
"Sydney, are you jealous?" he smirks.  
  
Now I have to lay a hand on my thigh to keep from kicking him. "Jealous?" I scoff. "Are you insane? I'm worried about my son because the woman taking care of him is more interested in you than his welfare. As of tomorrow she's fired."  
  
"That's my decision."  
  
"Well I want her gone. She looks incompetent and I'm tired of her making a fool of herself because she's in love with you."  
  
He shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly. "Aren't they all?"  
  
I have an angry retort on the tip of my tongue, ready to be fired, but something about the way he said that makes me stop. The words seem to casual, even for Sark. He sounds, like he's overcompensating. . . like he's hiding something. I lay a hand on his arm and he stiffens under my touch. "Was I in love with you too?"   
  
For the briefest of moments something like pain flashes in his eyes only to be replaced by burning anger. He jerks out of my touch and crosses his arms over his chest. "Are you insane?" he mimics my earlier question. He reaches out and cups my chin in one hand, sending a spark of heat across my skin. I take in a shaky breath and try to ignore the heat burning it's way up my neck. He bends his head, lowers his mouth so it hovers barely an inch over mine, and I close my eyes as his lips brush mine once, twice, three times. I melt against his mouth and twine one hand in his hair. I hear him laugh and pull away slightly. I open my eyes to find him watching me with amused blue eyes, mocking me and how easily I give in. This is a game to him, a way to best Sydney Bristow, and I fell for it hook, line, sinker. I start to pull away, but he wraps an arm my back, pressing me against his chest. I stare up at him with wide eyes. "We hate one another, Sydney," he whispers against my mouth." "What makes you think we'd ever be in love?"   
  
He pulls away before I can answer and walks out the door, cold laughter echoing in his wake. I press a shaky hand to my mouth and wonder what the hell just happened. I kissed Sark, or rather he kissed me, and I enjoyed it. In fact, I more than enjoyed it. If I wasn't in so much shock I'd run down that hall, push him against a wall, and tear his clothes off. But I'm so spooked I can barely stand. I collapse against the wall and sink to the floor, drawing my knees to my chest. He said he hates me; he said I hate him; he said we could never be in love. I look at the crib standing before me, think of the baby sleeping peacefully within its walls, and know there's more to it. Somewhere along the way I fell in love with Sark. I just can't remember it.   
  
~ * ~  
  
Please, please, please respond! 


	7. Human Touch

Warning: This chapter is a bit racier than my usual stuff, but I'm unable to write a really smutty sex scene so bear with me. I did my best. Thanks.  
  
Author's Note:  
  
One, sorry for the long delay between updates. I was out of town again and didn't have time to write. Two, thank you for all your wonderful comments. I'm always amazed at how much support is growing for this story. It really keeps me committed to finishing it. Three, a little preview on Sark. He and Syd have issues that will become more clear as the story progresses. I'm working on giving him a backstory too because we know so little about his character and I think history will help explain him a little better. Hope that clears things up for everyone who's starting to hate Sark. That's the last thing I want to happen! I hope you enjoy this chapter!  
  
~ * ~  
  
"Tell me, in a world without pity  
  
Do you think what I'm askin's too much  
  
I just want something to hold onto  
  
And a little of that human touch  
  
Just a little of that human touch"  
  
- Human Touch, Bruce Springsteen  
  
~ * ~   
  
That night I dreamed of him. After Sark left me in tears I pulled myself together and took one long, lasting look at my baby. I knew I'd see him in the morning, in a few hours in fact, but I couldn't bear to leave him. I was tempted to curl up in front of his crib, but I felt exhaustion creeping in and I wanted to bright and alert the next morning, so I reluctantly slunk off to my own room.   
  
The place is like paradise, complete with the softest, fluffiest, most comfortable bed I've ever slept in. Everything about the room is amazing. There are silk negligees hanging in my closet, two-hundred dollar shampoo in my shower. It's all too orderly, too perfect, and I feel uncomfortable touching anything—except the bed. So I wash my face with my Neutrogena face wash and curl up in my flannel PJs and slip under my mother's ridiculously expensive comforter. . .and I dreamed of him.   
  
* * * * *   
  
It was right after I came to the island, maybe only a few weeks later, because I wake up in the very same room with an elastic bandage wrapped around my torso. I lift one hand to brush my hair off my face and it's a map of healing bruises. Hurriedly, I push up my silk nightgown and stare at a web of yellowing bruises and scabbed cuts. "What the hell happened to me?" I murmur out loud. Then it all comes back: Francie, Will, the Double, the fight. . .waking up in my mother's arms on an island in the Pacific.   
  
I groan and collapse back on my pillows. Now I remember. I've been here for three weeks recovering from that disastrous fight with the Double. She nearly kicked my ass and I was lucky, but I had to kill her to survive. I close my eyes and remember that night. It was the hardest thing I ever did, pumping that woman's chest full of bullets. In my head I knew it wasn't Francie, that the real Francie was already dead and this woman was responsible, but I still felt like I was killing my best friend. I remembered collapsing afterwards, tears spilling down my cheeks, and then it all goes black. The next thing I remember is waking up here, in my own personal prison.  
  
My mother says it's for the best, that she's protecting me from Sloane, but I know her better than she thinks. She's up to something, she's always up to something. I was worried at first, but it's not like she's not letting me leave so I'll have plenty of time to figure out what's really going on. Sighing, I push away all thoughts of my mother and Francie and Sloane. It's dark and I forgot to close my curtains and a full moon shimmers over the ocean outside. I'll give my mother credit where credit is due. She may be an untrustworthy snake, but she has a beautiful home. I like being by the ocean. It gives me a sense of peace, of comfort, reminds me there is a world I'm missing beyond this house, a world I need to get back to at any cost.   
  
I jump out of bed and instantly regret my decision. My ribs ache from the impact and my head rings a little. I gingerly walk to my closet and open the doors and all I see is row upon row of sundresses. They're all a bit slinky, intended for beautiful tans and not much movement, neither of which I have any intention of doing this evening. I'm going to take the opportunity to find my way off this island. I select the least risqué one, a red and white halter that ties around the neck. I slip my feet into a pair of flip-flops and pad down the stairs.   
  
To my surprise no one's around. My mother's study is dark, she already went to bed, and for once there are no special visitors or contacts wandering the halls. The house is quiet, empty, and all mine—perfect for planning a deception. I tour the first floor, searching for secret passages or hidden doors, but come up empty. I'll admit, it's dark and shadowy, but I thought my super-spy sense would compensate; guess not. I'll have to try again when it's light out. Realizing I'm not going to get anything done tonight I head out for the back porch, which overlooks the ocean. I figure I'll take a short walk, maybe collect some shells, watch the ocean a while from the house. I never make it that far.  
  
When I go outside there's already someone on the porch leaning against the railing and watching the ocean. In the darkness it's hard to make out who he is. All I see is a tall, half-naked man wearing a pair of swim trunks hanging off his lean hips. Drops of water cling to his bare back and his blond hair sticks up in damp spikes. I decided to confront this unknown visitor and take a step forward, causing the floorboard to squeak under my feet. The man turns around and fixes me with an icy, blue stare. His mouth quirks into a cold smile and he crosses his arms over his chest. "Agent Bristow," Mr. Sark drawls. "What a wonderful surprise." There's something very dangerous about his tone, the way his body hums with energy. His eyes blaze through the darkness and I shiver under his gaze.   
  
"What are you doing here?" I ask a bit shakily. Normally I'm calm and confident with him, but there's something different about tonight. He's making me nervous the way he's watching me so intently. "Aren't you supposed to be in prison?"  
  
He rolls his eyes and turns to the porch rail. I notice a bottle of vodka resting on the wooden beam, good potato vodka, not the expensive red wine he normally drinks. He picks up the bottle and to my shock takes a long drink. What happened to refined Mr. Sark who only wears business suits and drinks Bordeaux? Now he's wearing a bathing suit and consuming a Russian peasant drink.. I blink a few times, wondering if I'm imagining all this, but he's still there, watching me intensely, when I open my eyes. "I'm no longer in the CIA's custody, Agent Bristow," he says and gestures towards the ocean, emphasizing the obvious. "Did you really think they could hold me there, like an animal trapped in a cage? You know your mother wouldn't leave me like that, although it's a pity it took her so long to finalize my escape."  
  
I laugh, thinking I have the upper hand. "My mother put you there you sonofabitch. She's the reason you were rotting in prison in the first place!"  
  
I expect a look of hurt to wash over his face, but he doesn't even blink. "I know, Agent Bristow. It was all part of her plan. Surely you know that."  
  
Actually I didn't know that, and I'm tempted to tell him he's in denial, but there's something about the assuredness in his tone when he told me about my mother's plan that lets me know he's not lying. I'm the one in denial, thinking my mother would ever betray the child she raised to adulthood. "So she helped you escape and she's keeping me prisoner," I say annoyedly. "It figures she'd go out of her way for you and leave me here to steam."  
  
Sark frowns and takes another swig from the bottle. "She only put me in prison to help you. She had to make them think her allegiance was flexible, regain some of your father's trust."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"So she could come running to your rescue. She wanted to protect you from Sloane. My imprisonment was part of the plan." He looks annoyed and kicks absently at sand staining the floorboards. Maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it's his swim, but he is most definitely more relaxed than I've ever seen him. He looks like a frat boy on Spring Break or an Abercrombie and Fitch model. Either way he looks human, something I'd never associated with Sark. He looks at me suddenly and something flashes in his eyes; it looked almost like a sheen of tears. But before I can ask him he looks away and turns back to the sea.   
  
I sigh heavily and stare at his broad back. He runs a hand through his hair and my breath hisses sharply through my lips. His muscles bunch and his shoulders flex and desire coils in my belly. I'd never imagined Sark as anything more than a pay-by-the-hour assassin, a cold, unfeeling killer, but something is different tonight. He's vulnerable, sensitive, and getting strangely more attractive by the moment. He's visibly upset about something, and while I know who he is and what he does, I can't hide the feeling person inside me. Without thinking I reach over and lay a hand on his arm. I feel the tension immediately, hard, coiled muscles and hot skin. "Why are you drinking, Sark?" I ask softly.  
  
I assume he'll twist out of my grasp immediately, but he surprises me. Instead, he turns and looks directly into my eyes. Even mores surprising, the hint of sadness is gone. Now they're burning with anger. "Someone very dear to me is dead, Sydney." He reaches out and grabs my wrist, pulling me closer to him. "A young, beautiful girl is gone and she's not coming back. You should know about that, Sydney."  
  
I'm so stunned I don't notice Sark is now using my given name. I didn't think Sark was capable of feeling anything for another individual, much less loving one, but it's obvious he loved this person very deeply. But what is he talking about, knowing what it's like to be beautiful and gone? "Are you talking about me?" I ask softly. "I'm sorry for your loss, but what does it have to do with me?"  
  
He laughs without humor and pushes me away. I take a wary step back and size him up. He's bigger than I originally thought and a lot more muscular. I'm still injured and I don't know if I'd be able to take him in a fight. "You are one of the most self-centered people I've ever encountered," he sneers. "Not everything is about you, but for once you're right. Do you remember the night you came here, bruised and bloody and almost dead?" I nod and watch him warily; he's looking at me as if he wishes I hadn't survived that night. "What happened, Sydney?"  
  
I close my eyes as the memories come flashing back. I don't want to remember that night and the death and pain, but Sark won't let me forget. He presses on, goading me, making me remember. "I had a fight," I say weakly. "With the second Double. She stabbed Will. She tried to kill me. I had to defend myself."  
  
He takes a step forward, his eyes burning hotly. "So what did you do?"  
  
"She was coming at me with a knife. There wasn't anywhere else to run. I shot her. I had to. She—" I stop in mid-sentence, realizing what Sark has been getting at all along. "My god," I whisper. "It was her, the second Double. You were in love with her." It's more a statement than a question.  
  
"Her name was Allison," he says flatly. "And you killed her." The fire disappears from his eyes and he regards me coldly. "I'll never forget that, Sydney. Never"   
  
It takes me a moment to respond. "I'm sorry for your loss," I say slowly. "But I can't take back what happened. It was self-defense and if I did it all over again I wouldn't change anything."  
  
He doesn't say anything, but a slow smile creeps across his face and I dread what's coming next. "Maybe, but remember your reporter friend, Will? An eye for an eye, right?"  
  
I gasp and stagger a bit, grasping the railing for support. "What are you talking about? Will is fine!"  
  
Sark shrugs his shoulder and leans against a column on the porch. "According to Agent Kendal, your friend is resting six feet underground. Unless of course he's lying. . .in an Agency wide brief.  
  
It takes a few minutes to process his words. I cry out and collapse against the rail and he watches me curiously. He takes a hesitant step towards me and for a moment I think he's going to hug me, but he hands me the bottle of vodka instead. I take a long drink. . .then another. . .then another. I feel a little bit better. . .then the impact of his statement sinks in: Will, my best friend, is dead. I rush at him, arms punching and legs kicking. I forget my aching ribs and bruised fingers. I go at him with everything I have. "Why are you so evil?" I yell as he tries to restrain my flailing limbs. "Do you take pleasure in causing me pain? Does it make you feel good breaking my heart and telling me Will is dead? I'm sorry I killed you girlfriend, but it was her or me! You would have done the same thing! And here you're giving me lectures about selfishness when you're the most arrogant, cold-hearted—"   
  
I never get to finish my rant, because a pair of hard, but surprisingly gentle lips, come crashing down on mine. It takes me a minute to realize Sark is kissing me, and another minute to realize I'm enjoying it. I should be pushing him away, but I find myself pressing harder against him instead. He pushes me back against the column, framing my face with his hands. I tangle my fingers in his hair and arch against him. God, it feels good. I'm past caring who he is. I just want to forget that my best friends are dead and it's all on my head. I brought them into this world; I might as well have shot the bullet myself. But this. . .Sark's mouth on mine and his hands on my skin. . . it make me forget all my pain.   
  
He seems to be feeling the same thing. There's a desperation in his touch, like he's just craving some kind of connection with another person, even if it's me. For once he's right; we are the same. We're both hurting and just want the pain to go away. I gasp as his lips roam down my throat and smile as all my hurt melts away.  
  
His fingers effortlessly play with the tie of my dress and the material parts, revealing my bare breasts. He tugs the dress the rest of the way down and I stand before him wearing nothing but the lace thong I found in underwear drawer. His eyes darken in the moonlight and he reaches for me again. Hands, lips, mouth. . . he's everywhere and I'm grateful for the pillar supporting my weight. I touch him everywhere he touches me, smiling as he groans into the night. But we never talk, not a single word. Hearing each other's voices would break the spell, remind us of who we are and what we're doing—and neither of us want to be reminded right now.   
  
I wrap my legs around his hips and he buries his face in my neck and then he begins to move and I can't remember the rest. Everything spins around me and I feel like I'm flying, cliché, but true. I can feel him tightening inside me, feel the pace increase, and I feel tears spring to my eyes. It's just that good. He begins to shake and I quiver around him and he finally says something. "Look at me, Sydney," he whispers and I open my eyes. His are big and blue and burning again, but there's no anger there this time, only passion and desire. "Say my name, Sydney."  
  
"Sark," I whisper.  
  
He smiles and buries his face in my hair. "Remember this, Sydney. I want you to remember this forever."  
  
It doesn't end with the escapade on the porch. Afterwards he picks up our clothes and without a word takes me by the hand and leads me to his bedroom. I spend the rest of the night there: in his bed, his shower, the hot tub on his balcony. And the next morning I wake up with him beside me, his arm wrapped possessively across my stomach. "Good morning, Agent Bristow," he whispers. "Sleep well?"  
  
* * * * *   
  
I shoot up in bed like a light, my eyes wild and my skin suspiciously hot. I press a hand to my forehead and it burns under my touch but I know I don't have a fever. No, I just had the most erotic, sexiest dream of my life—and it was with Sark. In the two years leading up to my relationship with Vaughn I had hundreds of dreams like this one, but never one so real, so lifelike. Then my mind starts whirling. . .  
  
In my dream I slept with Sark three weeks after I was brought to the island. It took me nine months to carry a baby to term. I was missing for one year, eleven months. And I've been back at the CIA for five. I realize that wasn't a dream at all. It was real, a memory, a flashback of my past. All along I wondered how Sark and I could have created a child together. Now I know.  
  
~ * ~  
  
Please, please, please respond! 


	8. Ain't No Sunshine

Author's Note:  
  
Hey all! Look what's back! To your amazement, I've actually had this chapter ready for the last few days, but my posting permissions were taken away for some odd reason and I had to clear that mess up before I could put up the newest chapter. I'll warn you, after being away from this story for so long this chapter is rather short because I'm trying to find my bearings again before I launch back into things full time. The premiere really got me excited about writing again, but I have to thank all my readers for all your amazing support and encouragement. That's what's helped me finally beat my writer's block and pick this story up again. I can't thank ya'll enough. I hope you enjoy!  
  
~ * ~  
  
In the end, it was easier to stay awake than dream of him. Every time I closed my eyes images of our night together would flutter across my mind and I'd wake up restless and panting, clutching the sheets between sweaty hands. I could still feel his fingers clutching my hips, his lips slanting over mine. . .it was making my life hell. I spent the night curled in my window seat, knees drawn to my chest while I watched the moonlight glitter on the water.   
  
The sea is quiet tonight, hardly a ripple marring its smooth surface. It's calm, too calm for my taste--nothing like I feel inside. No, I'm anything but calm. It's like everything is spinning out of control and there's nothing I can do to stop it. It's not just that I lost my memory and can't remember the last two years of my life--now there's a child involved, a lover, complications I'm not prepared for. If I can't deal with Vaughn marrying another woman I have no idea how I'm supposed to handle Adam and Sark.  
  
I reach out, press my hand to the window as if I can touch the sea, create strife to rival my own. The ocean used to bring me peace, strength, but now, gazing jealously at its endless expanse of tranquil blue, I feel nothing resembling peace. I'm agitated, edgy, uncomfortable in my own skin--because it isn't mine anymore. It belongs to a different girl, a girl who used to live in this room and sleep in this bed and play with her baby on a wide, wraparound porch. I'm not that girl, but I'm not Sydney either. I don't know who I am, but brooding in a fetal position isn't getting me any closer to what I want.   
  
I take a shower instead, letting the pelting water wash away all the anger and hurt, at least temporarily. I scrub my skin furiously, as if I can remove the taint of mistake and uncertainty that haunts me. But rubbing my skin raw doesn't make my memory return, it doesn't help me understand the overwhelming love I feel for my son, and it doesn't explain my conflicted feelings for Sark. Sighing, I step out of the shower and pad into my room to dress.  
  
I haven't been here for over two years but it's like I never left. Without a second thought I find my body lotion in the second cabinet under the sink, my moisturizer in the far right drawer. I feel a little better as I head to my closet to find something to wear. I'm beginning to feel more comfortable in this place I used to inhabit. With each tiny step, like remembering what hook I hang my robe on, I feel a little closer to the past, to my old self. With each little accomplishment I feel closer to figuring out who I am.  
  
That is, until I get to the vanity.   
  
It's beautifully crafted, roses and hearts carved gently into the wood, with a cool marble countertop. I run my fingers over an ivory handled hairbrush, hold a bottle of custom-blended French perfume to my nose and sniff. The scent is soft, flowery, nothing like the Obsession I wore to drive Vaughn crazy. I pretend to wonder who I wore this perfume for, but it's pointless. I know who I wore it for and I don't want to think about him. I put the bottle down hurriedly and it totters dangerously on its rim, threatening to fall. I catch my reflection in the mirror as I steady the bottle and gasp.   
  
I'm still too thin, have been too thin since I kicked Vaughn's ass in Hong Kong and realized it wasn't all a dream, but there's something different about my face. Sure, my nose is still sunburned and the sun's brought out a sprinkling of freckles across my cheeks, but that's not it. There's a sparkle in my eyes, a hint of curiosity, a warmth I haven't seen since the day I got my dad out of jail. It's like I've been frozen for three months, locked in the past filled with disappointment and pain, but here, in the warmth of the Caribbean air and my son's love, I'm starting to thaw. I smile broadly, liking the way it makes my eyes crinkle at the corners and brightens my entire face. I do it again, and again, even daring to laugh once. I could get used to this, seeing light in my eyes, being able to laugh with humor and not sarcasm. . . just being happy again period.  
  
But then, as it usually does, my mind destroys my illusion.  
  
I see myself gazing in the same mirror, the same perfume bottles and creams littering the vanity, only I'm not alone. Long-fingered hands wrap a chord of diamonds around my throat while blond hair prickles my skin and soft lips press a gentle kiss to my bare shoulder.   
  
"Happy Birthday," he whispers in my ear. "And many more to come." I reach up and clasp my hands over his, watching our reflections in the mirror. My eyes are lit up and my cheeks glowing. . .  
  
And then it's gone, before I learn what happens next. But the memory's still there, my shining face and brilliant smile, just like I was a few moments ago, before the past ruined everything.   
  
"Dammit!" I cry. It's like every time I'm so close to remembering something important, a clue that would explain the last two years of my life, its snatched away. I don't understand why my own mind hates me so much, is so desperate to keep the truth from me.   
  
I turn away from the vanity, the mirror and all it reveals, and pad to the closet. Just like I expected, it's filled with clothes I don't recognize, but are still familiar. I brush my hand over a silk evening gown, a cotton sundress, remembering the feel of the fabrics against my skin, but not when I wore them. I settle on the one dress I do recognize, the red and white flowered halter I wore the night my son was conceived. I run the skirt through my fingers in hopes of remembering something, but all I see when I close my eyes is Sark's mouth curving against mine, my back pressed against a rough, wooden pillar.   
  
Shaking my head to dislodge the memory I raise my arms to pull the dress over my head, but something seems a little off. I scan the material, unsure of what I'm looking for, but knowing something is wrong. And then, just like the memory at the vanity, it comes to me. There's supposed to be a stain on the skirt, right above the hem, when Adam's clumsy hands spilled my glass of red wine. But there's nothing there. I drop the dress and pick up a pair of cargo pants, searching for the frayed pockets, but the pants are brand new. So is everything else in my closet. And when I rush back to the vanity and examine the hairbrush, the hairline crack in the handle is gone.   
  
I sit down on the bed and take a deep breath, wondering if I'm truly going crazy--but I know I'm not. I remember those things the same way I remember Adam. I know they're real, because I can remember the day I dropped the brush and cracked the handle, or the way I loved my cargos so much I washed them to near exhaustion.   
  
Confusion doesn't begin to cover my feelings. I feel betrayed, almost violated. It's like someone has tried to erase my existence, as if, if my things no longer exist I wouldn't either. But if someone wanted me gone, why replace my things with new ones? The whole thing is downright creepy.   
  
And I'm going to figure out what's going on, but glancing at the clock, my investigation will have to wait. It's nearly noon, way later than I wanted to sleep. Adam should be up and about by now and I want to see him in the full light of day, when he doesn't have to be sleeping and Sark can harass me.   
  
I reach for the cargo pants, but then I think of the gorgeous blonde panting after Sark and I pick a sundress instead. It's cool, sexy, subtle. . .perfect. Not that I'm trying to impress anyone, but I have something to say to that woman downstairs and I want to look my best. I remember her smirk last night, when I stood in my mother's living room like a petulant child and she clasped my baby to her breast. She had such power in her gaze, such superiority, but that's about to end. I'm tired of crying, tired of pain, tired of hyperventilating every time I think of Sark or Vaughn and my missing two years. I need to get control of my life back and that begins with her. As of tomorrow, Svetlana caring for my baby will be a thing of the past.  
  
~ * ~   
  
Please, please, please respond! 


	9. Control

Author's Note:  
  
Hey everyone. I hope you don't hate me from dropping out of sight for the last couple months, but I'm back and writing again. Thank you so much to those who have faithfully stuck by and pestered me into starting writing again. It really helped push me to finish this chapter. I had a really bad case of writer's block and the lack of new "Alias" episodes really caused me to lose my interest in writing. But, I got inspired again when my Season One DVDs arrived and I made a BIG discovery: I actually liked Sydney during Season One, because all she's done is annoy me during Season Three. So that revelation, coupled with the amazing finale of SATC tonight has inspired me to finally finish this chapter. Also, I'm going to be trying something new with this story. My biggest problem has been the length of these chapters, cramming lots of ideas and plots into really long chapters, which is why I never finish them because I have trouble piecing things together in a way I think is good. So here's my proposal: shorter, but more frequent chapters. I think this will really help me get them out faster and also improve the quality. Hope that's okay with everyone! So enjoy this chapter and just check back a few pages on the board for a refresher. And if you requested a PM AFTER 12-31-03, let me know again. I don't have a record and I lost everything when the board died. I hope you enjoy!  
  
Note: I've included some Russian words in this story, but since the Russian language uses the Cyrillic alphabet I've included phonetic translations in English. If anyone would prefer literal translations let me know, but I think it's easier to read this way.  
  
~ * ~  
  
"Got my own mind  
  
I wanna make my own decisions  
  
When it has to do with my life, my life  
  
I wanna be the one in control"  
  
- "Control," Janet Jackson  
  
~ * ~  
  
It takes me a moment to get ready, just a minute or two to adjust my dress, brush a layer of blush across my cheeks, spray a hint of fine French perfume across the curve of my neck. But my hair is out of control. It's long, longer than I've ever worn it, the ends nearly reaching the small of my back. It used to be short, functional, perfect for ponytails and French twists--better for tucking under wigs. But now it's long, so long--and I never wear it up anymore. I like the feel of the soft strands brushing against my skin, tickling the sensitive skin of my back. It feels so good without the tight grip of a rubberband or barrette holding it fast in place. It should feel hot, heavy, but I've never felt lighter in my life. I shake my head a little, watching sun-streaked strands spill over my shoulder. There's gold in my hair, from all the time I've spent at the beach, and it's picked up some kind of curl, because it waves where it used to be pin-straight. But either way I like it and it feels good.  
  
Gazing at my reflection in the mirror, I wonder who the girl is staring back at me. Everything is different: the hair, the perfume, the dress. The Sydney I remember would never be caught dead in something so low-cut, so exposed. It would have reminded her too much of her missions and what they made her do. The Sydney I remember favored tailored suits and knee-length skirts--conservative, constricting beneath the layers wool and silk--but the Sydney staring back at me is anything but conservative and she's nothing like the girl I remember.   
  
I think back to those first agonizing days, after I came back from the dead, and I couldn't recognize the girl staring at me through the mirror's gaze. She was all haunted eyes and gaunt cheeks and dark brown hair that grazed her shoulders with knife-sharp edges. I don't see that anymore. There's something about this island that puts me at ease, gives me a sense of peace the Santa Monica beach never could. It scares me, that this foreign place filled with people I hate has such a calming effect.  
  
It scares me more because I never want to leave.   
  
I thought about it last night, and for a brief moment I was tempted to pick up and run, but then I remembered Adam and his rosy cheeks and soft curls, and knew I'd never be able to leave him again. I don't know what happened five months ago, why I woke up bruised and bloody in a Hong Kong alley, but I know I can't run again. One look in my son's blue eyes is more powerful than all the sympathy cards and special treatment I have back in LA. How could I turn that down? I might hate Sark, distrust my mother, resent that insipid nanny, but I'm not leaving my son again, not now, not when I know what it's like to look in his eyes and feel at home. I'll never let him go.  
  
And it's time to take him back.  
  
~ * ~  
  
Creeping down the staircase, I'm unsure of my plan of action. I would be so easy to slam my fist into her face, watch blood creep down her chin and smirk as she clutched her mouth in pain. . .but I don't want to attack her in front of my son. It's been so long since I've seen him, felt his silky cheek against my own, and I don't want to scare him. My fingers curl into a fist at my side and I flex my wrist, feeling the power there. Reluctantly, I splay my hand flat against my hip. I'll have to put off my confrontation with Svetlana until he's safely napping.   
  
But, as usual, my plans don't work out quite the way I intended.  
  
I find Svetlana and Adam in the kitchen eating lunch. She's feeding him hamburgers and French fries, whispering soft words of encouragement with each bite the takes on his own. I struggle to hear what she's saying from my place in the doorway, but she's speaking Russian. Figures. I can speak four languages fluently and not one is my mother's native tongue. My heart flutters in my chest as Adam whispers back in Russian, his words slurred with the high pitch and excitement of two-year-old talk--and I have no idea what he's saying. He could be telling Svetlana to get lost so he can be with his real mommy and I'd have no idea. I make a mental pack to bone up on my Russian as soon as I take care of the nanny from Hell.  
  
"Adam," she says in heavily-accented English. "One more bite, okay?" she asks and pushes a french-fry across his highchair tray. "One more bite and we'll go to the beach."  
  
Adam responds by chucking the fry at her head. Pieces of potato catch in her blonde curls and she brushes furiously at her hair, while Adam grins sardonically. "Naughty boy," she whispers. "No throwing things at Svetlana."  
  
I decide it's time to interrupt their little gathering. "Good Morning," I chirp. "What's for lunch?"  
  
Svetlana sighs and puts down the spoon. She glances pointedly out the window, at the sun burning high in the sky. "It's already afternoon," she says and turns back to Adam. "Come on sweetheart," she coos. "One more bite."  
  
"I'm Sydney Bristow," I say. "I'm Adam's mother."  
  
She rolls her eyes. "I know who you are. You were here when Irina first found me."  
  
It figures my mother would be involved with this. I'll have to ask her about it later.   
  
"I can finish feeding him," I offer, but she ignores me, and my baby giggles and opens his mouth as she twirls a spoon of applesauce like an airplane.   
  
"Good boy, dushyenka." She scoops the last spoonful and lifts her arm--until I lay a steady hand on her wrist.   
  
"I can do that," I say stiffly, a hint of warning in my voice.  
  
She tosses her hair over one shoulder and shakes her wrist; my grip tightens. "That's all right." And this time she says it in English so I can understand.  
  
"Really," I assure her, my voice darkening. "I WANT to do it."  
  
She puts down the spoon and I release her wrist. "Ms. Bristow," she says coldly. "I am employed to care for Adam. That means it is my responsibility to feed him."  
  
"I can do it."  
  
"I'm sure you can. But you've been gone a long time and I've been caring for him since."  
  
"I'm here now," I say and cringe the hint of pleading in my voice. I can't believe I have to beg the hired help to let me feed my son.  
  
She ignores me and slips the last spoonful in Adam's mouth. He laughs and she smiles at him, murmuring in Russian. She puts a cookie on his try and clears away the rest of lunch. I follow her to the sink. "Did you hear what I said?"  
  
She rinses the dishes and puts them in the dishwasher. "Yes, I did."   
  
"So you understand that I'm Adam's mother and I'll care for him from now on."  
  
She turns off the water and dries her hands. "What I understand is that I work for Mr. Sark. I follow his orders, his instructions. If you have a problem, you'll have to take it up with him."   
  
"But he's not here now. And I would like to be with my baby."  
  
"That's not my decision."   
  
She turns on her heel and walks to Adam. She bends down to unbuckle the highchair, but I get to her first. I grab her hair with one hand and wrap it around my wrist. She yelps sharply and pulls at her hair. Adam watches over his chocolate chip cookie and I wink at him. "Baby, watch Mama work."   
  
"Listen to me," I hiss. "I don't care who you work for. I don't care what you think. Adam is my son, my responsibility. You're no longer needed."  
  
She curses in Russian and twists to look at me, tears in her eyes. "Let me go. If you have a problem with my job, discuss it with Mr. Sark. Until then, I'll care for Adam."  
  
I twister her hair around my wrist again and she cries out. "I'm not asking you. I'm telling you. You're fired."  
  
"You left him!" she says through gritted teeth. "You gave up on him--and he became mine."  
  
Tears blur my eyes at her words--because she's right. I did leave my son, I did give up on him. How could I have ever been so stupid? What was so important that I could have abandoned my child? She must have seen my reaction, because she smirks at me, and my grip on her hair tightens; she yelps again. "Let go of my hair."  
  
"I'll let you go when you agree to leave Adam alone. He doesn't need you anymore, now that I'm here." I'm shocked by how strong my voice is, considering I'm on the verge of tears.  
  
"That's not my decision."  
  
I grip her hair harder. "What's more important, Sark or your hair?"   
  
"I told you, it's not up to me."  
  
I sigh. "Svetlana, I know you're sleeping with Sark. I don't care. What I do care about is my son, and if you don't stay away from him you're going to be bald. Understand?"  
  
"You used to care," she says softly.   
  
"What?"  
  
"You used to care," she repeats. "He used to matter to you."  
  
"Who--" I start, but a shadow falls across the floor and Svetlana immediately starts crying. And I mean hysterical, shoulder-shaking sobbing. I glance up and find Sark watching us, his arms folded across his chest and look of amusement crossing his face. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I think Svetlana's just set feminism back twenty years, using tears to manipulate a man--except Sark's not an ordinary man and not easily manipulated. I glance back down at her splotchy face, wondering where this will go.   
  
Sark tucks a finger under Svetlana's chin and examines her tear-stained face. "Bored already?" he asks and I shake my head.  
  
"We're negotiating," I try to explain, but Svetlana interrupts with a string of angry Russian and Sark sighs.   
  
"Sydney," he says. "Let go of her hair."  
  
"Not until she understands."  
  
He cups my hand in his palm, resting his fingers on top of mine. His hand is warm and large, his fingers long and tapered. In the back of my mind I remember those fingers skimming across my hips …I shake my head, remembering I have a more important task at hand. "Sydney," he says, his voice soft and slightly menacing. "Let me handle this."   
  
"No."  
  
"Yes." His hand tightens around mine, that familiar heat spreading across my palm. I jerk away as if I've been burned, and in a way I have. I came to this island looking for peace and quiet, and some answers, and all I've found is confusion and questions. Something happened between Sark and me, and I don't just mean Adam. Something deeper, darker happened, something that causes his eyes to flash with anger every time they meet mine and his voice to coat itself with ice. I sigh inwardly. This thing between us is just another question to add to my never-ending list of queries about what happened during the last two years. Sark looks at me intensely, waiting for a decision, and the fight just slips out of me. All I wanted when I came into the kitchen was some quality time with my son and I managed to let everything go astray. If I want to take control of my whole life, I have to start with the simple things.   
  
"We have an understanding, da?" I ask with a slight tug on Svetlana's hair and she nods through her tears. "Good." I loosen my grip on her hair and she launches herself at Sark, burying her wet face in his $3,000.00 suit. I take the opportunity to unbuckle the high chair. "You take care of this," I say and pull Adam out of his chair. "I'm taking my son for a walk."   
  
We're gone before Sark can protest, but it's not like he has much of an opportunity, with a sniveling Russian nanny wrapped around him like a second skin. We head to the beach, to a shady area under a palm tree I know I've been to before, in another life, when I could remember everything. "You like that, baby? You like Mama in fighting mode?" I ask, as a wave crashes just inches from my toes, but he just watches me with Sark's bright blue eyes. "Yeah," I sigh. "I know it wasn't the most mature thing to do, but she just pissed me off, you know?" Again, no reaction. "I promise Mama's gonna try harder, okay? I'm gonna make you proud, Adam. No more temper tantrums. I'm gonna figure out what happened and why I left…because it's never gonna happen again."   
  
This time he smiles brightly, revealing a sprinkling of shiny, white teeth and reaches up to brush a lock of hair off my face. I'm startled by his reaction, but nothing could have prepared me for when he pressed his tiny palm to my cheek and said, "Love, Mama."   
  
It literally takes my breath away. I've missed so much already: his first words, his first step. As Sark pointed out last night, I don't even know is favorite food--or I can't remember it. I want to kick myself for forgetting all those important moments, but Adam doesn't seem to mind. He just absently strokes my cheek and plays with my hair and doesn't appear to care that his mother disappeared for the last five months of his life. "Do you forgive me, baby?" I ask, but I know it's the wrong question. What I really want to know, is can I forgive myself? But that's not something I can answer, at least not today, so instead I settle Adam in my lap and wrap my arms around his soft tummy and watch the wave break against the beach.  
  
Footsteps echo behind me and I brace myself for Sark's approach. "I took care of the matter," he says and stands next to us, shading his eyes with one hand as he gazes out at the water.  
  
"What did you say?"  
  
"Svetlana won't be a problem anymore."  
  
"Sent her packing, didn't you?"  
  
"Not exactly. She's still in my employ. She'll still care for Adam, but under your direction."  
  
"I don't want her anywhere near my son."  
  
"OUR son. I have a say in matters too."  
  
I want to stand and face him, glare him down the way I have so many times before, but Adam's fallen asleep in my arms and I don't want to disturb him. "Sit," I demand and pat the sand beside me.  
  
He looks at the ground dubiously and fingers his expensive suit. "Save it, Sark. Svetlana already ruined your suit. Sit and talk with me." He looks at little surprised that I'm giving him orders, but sits beside me. I smirk as he curses under his breath about sand in his shoes. But the smirk dissolves into something entirely different as he shrugs out of his jacket and undoes the first couple buttons of his shirt, his shoulders rippling. I have to look away as he starts rolling his sleeves to his elbows. "I don't want that woman anywhere near my son."  
  
Now it's his turn to smirk. "She's his nanny. She's been caring for him since the day he was born."  
  
"What? Why wasn't I caring for him?"  
  
The smirk widens for a moment ,but his face softens and the hint of a real smile appears instead. "You didn't know how to care for a child when Adam was born. Your mother hired Svetlana to help you. And when you left, he was her responsibility."  
  
"But I'm here now."  
  
He sighs. "I know. And I told her that you would be Adam's primary caretaker. She'll help when needed."  
  
"Even though I almost pulled her hair out?"  
  
He laughs and I'm so surprised he's not trying to bite my head off I laugh with him. "It's not her place to argue. She'll be fine." Adam stirs in my arms and stretches, resting his cheek on my shoulder. I glance up to find Sark watching us, his eyes hooded. "You used to come here before you left," he says and turns away to stare out at the ocean. The laughter is gone from his face, the usual blank mask in its place.   
  
"It's beautiful here," I agree, carefully choosing my words. Sark is opening up the tiniest bit and I don't want to upset him and lose the connection.   
  
"You were afraid Adam would get a sunburn. You thought a tree would solve the problem. You called it meer."  
  
"Peace."  
  
"Yes, peace."  
  
"Who planted it?"  
  
"I did."  
  
I'm about to roll my eyes, considering the man is wearing a $3,000.00 suit, but he reaches up to push a curl off his face and the his forearm bunches with muscle and they have to come from somewhere, so…"You…planted the tree. Why?"  
  
"Because you asked me to. I did it for Adam."  
  
"For my son." I take a moment to digest the information.  
  
"Our son," he says and I realize it's the second time this afternoon. I peek at his profile and while his face is still unreadable, but there's something gentler in his expression.   
  
"You keep saying that," I murmur.  
  
"You keep forgetting."  
  
I take a deep breath. "Was it hard on you, with me gone?"  
  
He turns to look at me, something burning darkly in his eyes. "Adam missed his mother."  
  
"Did you miss me?"  
  
He laughs again, but this time it's harsh and grating. "I thought I hated you, Sydney. How could I possibly miss you?"  
  
I sigh and close my eyes. So much for choosing my words carefully. When I open my eyes his face is like stone and his defenses are back in place. "Can we not fight, please? Not with Adam here."  
  
He pushes up from the sand and grabs his jacket. "We're not fighting, Sydney. I'm stating a fact." He checks his watch and begins unrolling his shirtsleeves. "I have a meeting with Irina now. Have Adam back within the hour. It's nearly time for his nap."  
  
And then he's gone, his shoes kicking up sand in his wake. I wrap my arms tighter around Adam as a chill breeze blows over us. Suddenly, it's not so peaceful outside anymore. My mind may be playing tricks on me, it's more than possible these days, but sky seems to darken and I can swear I smell rain on the wind. I glance down at Adam's peaceful face and decide an hour is a long time to wait. Plus, my mother and Sark are having a meeting--and I have some eavesdropping to do.  
  
~ * ~  
  
Please, please, please respond! 


	10. Liars, Liars Everywhere

Author's Note:  
  
Hey all! Here's the next segment, arriving much quicker than the last one! Some notes on this chapter and I'm sorry it's long. I'm going to start quickening the pace soon because I realize I've spent six chapters on two days and the story needs to start moving along. There will be two more chapters and then the pace will quicken. I know this is one very long day, but I have a lot of backstory to get across before the story can really start moving. I know many people have been complaining about the way Sarkney is progressing, but they don't call it angst for nothing. Syd's reason for leaving is complicated and it's not just that Syd did something bad and Sark's pissed. It's much deeper than that and both characters will play a part in her disappearance and memory loss. For those that hate Svetlana, and there are many of you, she will get better, I promise. She's not intended to be a Mary Sue and her role will be explained. Let's just say she plays a larger role than just Adam's annoying nanny. Irina's in this chapter (YEAH!) and hopefully Jack will be appearing soon too. This story is Sarkney, but I can't write an AU about Syd's lost years without including her family.   
  
I guess you could call this chapter "filler," because it's just paving the way for some Sarkney smut coming up, but I set up some things that will play a significant role later on. I'm treating this story as an experiment, both for improving my language and maturing my writing, and my goal for this chapter was to foreshadow coming events. I'm curious to see if anyone picks up what I'm getting at or if it will just become clear as the story progresses. Anyway, I just wanted to clarify points people have been asking about. On a side note, I'm going on spring break next week and won't have computer access so I'm going to write the next chapter by hand and post it when I get back. I can't promise anything, but I'm really going to try, so expect it in two weeks. That's about it for tonight. I hope you enjoy!  
  
~ * ~  
  
I'm surrounded by liars everywhere I turn  
  
I'm surrounded by impostors everywhere I turn  
  
I'm surrounded by an identity crisis everywhere I turn  
  
Am I the only one to notice?  
  
-"I Don't Wanna Be," Gavin DeGraw  
  
Side Note: Don't make fun because I'm a huge dork and used the "One Tree Hill" theme song. The lyrics just fit.  
  
~ * ~  
  
Of all the things I did for missions, eavesdropping was one of my favorites. Not that I really enjoyed most of what I did, but I had my preferences. And I loved wearing sexy dresses with microphones hidden in my cleavage. Or ugly jeweled purses with oversized sunglasses and sixth grade pigtails. It was easier when I was with the CIA and even SD-6, because I had Marshall's gadgets to help me. This time I have only my skills to rely on and it's kind of refreshing. I'm so used to hearing Vaughn's voice in my ear I feel like I'm doing something wrong without him--but I kind of like depending on myself. I used to pretend I was Miss Independent, but when I think back there are so many men I relied on: my father, Will, and most of all Vaughn. I groan inwardly. I hate thinking about Vaughn. It only makes me angry and depressed and a tiny bit bitter. Okay, a lot bitter…but that's another story. I don't have time to brood over my lost love, not when I have eavesdropping to do, because this conversation should help me learn something about my past.   
  
My mother and Sark are in the living room, and from my vantage point, flat against the outside wall, I have a clear view of the sickle and star bathed in sunlight. I roll my eyes at the Communist imagery. I'm not surprised though. My mother's just the type to claim she hates her former government, but proudly display its propaganda. Yet another thing about my mother I don't understand. Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever understand anything about her, other than she once loved her country more than her own daughter.   
  
Loud clicking interrupts my thoughts and I notice Sark pacing across the floor, arms crossed over his chest. My mother watches from her vantage point on the couch, her expression a mix of boredom and amusement. The clicking gets louder with each forceful step, until my mother can no longer hide her smile. "Come here, my pet," she says softly and pats the couch beside her. "Tell me what's wrong."  
  
Sark stops pacing for a moment and fixes her with a frustrated glare. "You know what's wrong."   
  
She pats the couch again. "Come here." Sark sighs and reluctantly sits beside her. She clucks her tongue, and to my surprise, he kicks off his shoes, stretches out, and drops his head in her lap. And even more surprising, she threads her fingers through his hair and massages his temples. "What's on your mind?"  
  
Sark closes his eyes and visibly relaxes, socked feet resting on the armrest. "She's remembering things."  
  
"I know. We discussed it last night. It's just flashes, nothing concrete."  
  
"She took Adam for a walk this afternoon. To meer."  
  
My mother's hands still for a moment. "It doesn't mean anything. She's drawn to familiar places. The minute she arrived she visited the beach. She won't remember." I curse under my breath. I knew she was hiding something yesterday. Our conversation was too ambiguous to be true. Resisting the urge to charge into the room and shake her until she reveals the truth, I grit my teeth, grip the doorjamb, and keep listening.  
  
Sark pushes away her hands and sits up. "Can't or won't? We can't afford any chances, Irina. You know what it could cost us."   
  
"It will be all right."  
  
Sark sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "I hope you're right. That's what you said about allowing Svetlana to continue caring for Adam. That didn't end well."  
  
Sark resumes his pacing and my mother stretches out on the empty couch, propping her chin with one hand. "You did the right thing. Adam needed a familiar face in his mother's absence."  
  
Sark rubs a hand over his eyes. "She nearly pulled her hair out, Irina. I don't have time to baby-sit them."  
  
"She didn't want another woman around her son. It's understandable." I couldn't agree more.  
  
He stops pacing and turns to face my mother. "You would know, wouldn't you?"  
  
It's my mother's turn to be surprised. She drops her head back on the pillow and stares at the ceiling. "I don't know what you're talking about."  
  
"I was twelve," he says matter-of-factly. "She was an executive for Paramount. I broke into her bedroom and held a gun to her head and told her to stay away from Jack Bristow if she wanted to live. She started to cry and I brushed her hair off her face and kissed her cheek. And when I crawled out her window you were waiting with a smile on your face." I remember the woman he's talking about. She had big hair she wouldn't let me touch and blue suits with puffy shoulders. She worked on important movies and told me if I was good, I could meet Tom Cruise. I liked her because she made my daddy smile. I remember she always smelled like Charlie perfume and one day she just disappeared--because my mother wasn't ready to let go.  
  
My mother's expression darkens. "She wasn't good enough for Jack and she wasn't fit to be around my daughter. She was stupid, trashy--"  
  
"You were jealous."   
  
"I was doing what was best for my family! Sydney did the same thing. You have to understand her perspective. It's not easy seeing another woman fawn all over you baby."  
  
"She shouldn't have left."  
  
"It's not always that simple." My mother's sitting now, her shoulders tense, and I find myself agreeing with her. I know I left, I know I abandoned Adam--but I also know there had to be a good reason why. It doesn't make it any less cruel, any less irresponsible, but it makes it understandable. Still, I can't suppress a smile: I know my life is shot to hell when I start sympathizing with my mother.  
  
Sark watches her dubiously. "Do you remember what happened after I left?" She looks away. " It was just after midnight and you crept inside Jack's house. You came out at dawn and cried the rest of the day."  
  
"He thought it was a dream," she whispers, tears in her eyes. "He told me he loved me, that he missed me--and the next morning he thought he made it all up."  
  
"Except, it wasn't a dream. You were dead, Irina, and even from the grave you couldn't let another woman have him. Even when he couldn't forgive you."  
  
When she turns to look at him her eyes are clear. "This is different, pet. You know that."   
  
He faces her and his eyes are like ice. "Betrayal is always betrayal, no matter the circumstances." He turns back to pacing, his shoes thumping against the oak floor, louder and louder with each angry step.  
  
My mother gets off the couch and places a hand on his shoulder. "You have a rare opportunity, a chance to fix everything. You shouldn't give that up."   
  
He stiffens under her touch and shakes off the offending hand. "Some things are impossible to fix."  
  
"I know about impossible love," she says softly. "I know what it's like to lose the only thing that matters to you. I know how it feels when it's your fault. You don't have to end up like me. No one should be alone forever." She wraps her arms around him, resting her cheek against his broad back. "I just want you to be happy, pet. I hate seeing you sad."  
  
He relaxes against her. "I want her gone. Before she costs us everything."  
  
This time, my mother stiffens. "I can't do that. I can't make her leave."  
  
Sark slips out of her embrace and turns to face her, his eyes blazing. "You know it's the only way. She can't stay here, Irina. The risk is too high."  
  
My mother closes her eyes and inhales deeply. "She's my daughter," she whispers. "I can't turn her away, even for you."  
  
"Even if she destroys you."  
  
"She won't."  
  
He laughs harshly. "You taught me everything I know, Irina. You're one of the most powerful women in the world. And yet, you continue to think with your heart, not your head. You accuse me of being irrational at times--"  
  
"I told you it was foolish to assassinate the head of K-Directorate so openly--"  
  
"I can be irrational," he continues. "But you can very stupid. And that's what you're doing now. You're not thinking Irina, and you're going to regret it."   
  
He stalks towards the door and she grabs his arm. "Where are you going? We're not finished!"  
  
His eyes practically blaze. "I'm going to fix your mess." She releases his arm and he practically stomps out of the room. I scurry into the hallway, hiding behind a heavy oak door. He whips out his cellphone and disappears into an office, slamming the door behind him. I creep out and press my ear to the door. I can hear heated voices through the wood, once again in Russian. I sigh; this eavesdropping thing is hard. Either my mother and Sark are talking in code, like their meeting tonight, or they're talking in Russian and I can't understand either. I relax against the wood, pressing myself flush against the door. Sark's still speaking in Russian and his tone is softer, calmer, harder to hear. I press myself harder against the door and my knee carelessly knocks the lower panels. Instantly the talking stops and a chair screeches angrily across the floor. I duck into the neighboring hallway as the door slams against the wall. From my limited vantage point I see him take a quick look around the deserted hall and disappear back into the study. Again, the door closes with a slam and I slip up the stairs.  
  
  
  
I know I should have kept listening to Sark's conversation, try and learn more about my past, but I've heard enough. Plus, I need some time alone to process all I heard. My mother and Sark were cryptic, but I learned what I needed to know and it's made me more confused. What I've deduced is simple: sometime five months ago I picked up and left and in return, Sark and my mother erased my memory. I should be angry. I should be furious that they stole something so precious from me--but I'm tired of being angry. I'm tired of being bitter all the time. When I was twelve I failed my first English paper and I came home crying to my father. He read the paper, looked at the grade, and said, "There's no use crying over spilt milk." I'd looked at him through my tears and asked what he meant. "You can't change what's happened," he'd said. "You can only hope to do better next time." He'd given me his handkerchief and dried my tears and taken me out for ice cream. It's one of the few times in my childhood my father ever pretended to give a damn about me.  
  
I decide to follow the same mentality here. I can't change the past. I can't pretend I never abandoned my son or my life here. I can't pretend there's nothing going on between me and Sark. But I can stop being angry all the time. I can focus on the positive and all I've achieved in the last few days. I got myself here, to this house with all its memories and secrets and a beautiful little boy who calls me "Mama." If I managed to get this far…I can get myself to the end. If I trust myself, if I try as hard as I can, I'll find out what I want to know. As my father would say, "If at first you don't succeed, try, try again." And it's time to start really trying.   
  
~ * ~  
  
I decide to start upstairs. There's been something bothering me about it since I arrived. Not that I should be surprised. After all, I do live in the creepiest room imaginable, complete with duplicate copies of my old wardrobe. I first need to figure out exactly why someone took the time to reproduce all my old things instead of just giving me the originals. It's too weird to be a coincidence and too well orchestrated not to have a hidden meaning; I just need to figure out what it is. I pause at the top of the stairs, debating which direction to take. Go left, and I'll be at my bedroom. Go right, and I'll be at Adam's room. Not that it couldn't hurt to check in on him, but he's napping and as much as I'd love to peer over his crib and watch him sleep, I need the time to solve my personal mystery. There are other rooms on Adam's side of the hall and I make a right turn at the stairwell.   
  
It's like last night again when I halt in front of Adam's bedroom. Three doors, three mysteries behind them. I know Door #3 leads to Adam's room, so I have two options left. Door #2 directly faces Adam's bedroom and when I open the door I'm greeted with row upon row of fancy sheets and towels, not exactly what I'm looking for. That just leaves Door #1. I close my palm around the handle, hoping I'll find more then terrycloth and seven hundred thread Egyptian cotton, and slowly open the door.  
  
The room is gorgeous, or at least it would be gorgeous if it wasn't an eerily perfect replication of my bedroom down the hall. Everything is the same: the furniture, the linens, even the window seat facing the ocean. A memory flashes through my mind…  
  
"Do you like it?" he asks and pulls the blindfold away from my eyes. "Is it what you wanted for your bedroom?"   
  
"It's beautiful," I say and run to the window. "I can see the water!"   
  
He smiles. "You said you love the sea. Now you'll always be near it."  
  
"Thank you." I stand nervously by the window, arms clasped over my just-bulging belly. "You didn't have to do this."  
  
He shrugs. "Let's not make a big deal out of nothing."  
  
"Sark-"  
  
"Just say thank you, Sydney. That's all I ask."  
  
"Okay," I say and start towards him. "Thank you."  
  
"You're welcome."   
  
We stare at each other awkwardly and before I know what I'm doing, I reach up and press a kiss to his cheek. "I love it."  
  
My breath hisses inward when I see the mirrored vanity in the corner, an ivory-handled hairbrush with a hairline crack lying on the counter. "Oh my god," I whisper.  
  
"Happy Birthday," he whispers in my ear. "And many more to come."   
  
I clasp a hand to my mouth. I can feel the weight of the diamonds around my neck, the heat of his hands against my hips…I can remember everything from that night. I told him it was the best birthday of my life. I sink down on the bed, my legs too numb to support my weight. I can't believe he would do something like this, and even more, I wish I knew what game he's playing. What is he trying to tell me? What message is he trying to send?   
  
I hurry to the closet and throw open the doors, messily pawing through the clothes. Sure enough, the red halter dress is filed near the back with the other sundresses. I throw it on the bed and examine the skirt; the red wine stain is exactly where I remember it. I search the rest of the closet and find the worn cargoes too. I want to scream in aggravation-but I pace instead, pondering what exactly all this pre-ordained creepiness means. What is Sark doing to me, besides slowly killing me with frustration? Is he trying to confuse me, annoy me, literally drive me insane? Am I being gaslighted? Or is he just sadistic enough to find pleasure in my misery? I rub my head and continue pacing, so lost in thought I don't notice the door open…or unfamiliar footsteps pad across the floor.  
  
~ * ~  
  
So, what do you think? 


End file.
